THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

GIFT  OF 

Mrs.  Edwin  Grabhorn 


THE  FIRE  DIVINE 


' 


It") 


By  R.  W.   GILDER 

THE  NEW  DAY 

THE  CELESTIAL  PASSION 

L  YRICS 

TWO   WORLDS 

THE  GREA  T  REMEMBRANCE 

The  above  also  in  one  volume  entitled 
FIVE  BOOKS  OF  SONG 

IN  PALESTINE,  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

POEMS  AND  INSCRIPTIONS 

"IN  THE  HEIGHTS" 

THE  FIRE  DIVINE 

A  Iso  selections  entitled 

FOR  THE  COUNTRY 

A  CHRISTMAS  WREATH 

A  BOOK  OF  MUSIC 


THE   FIRE   DIVINE 


BY 


RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

MCMVII 


Copyright,  1907, 

BY  RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER. 

All  rights  reserved. 

Published  October,  1907. 


IRVING   PRES8   NEW   YORK 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  FIRE  DIVINE u 

THE  INVISIBLE  (At  a  Lecture) 13 

DESTINY  (After  Reading  a  Work  on  Astronomy)     .      .      .15 

THE  OLD  FAITH 16 

THE  DOUBTER'S  SOLILOQUY 18 

LAW 21 

SOULS 22 

"  SPARE  ME  MY  DREAMS  " 24 

HYMN  (Thanksgiving  for  Saints  and  Prophets)    .      .      .      .25 

THE  VALLEY  OF  LIFE 27 

To  ONE  IMPATIENT  OF  FORM  IN  ART 30 

To  THE  POET 32 

COMPENSATION 34 

THE  POET'S  SECRET 36 

"  THE  DAY  BEGAN  AS  OTHER  DAYS  BEGIN"      ....  37 

A  POET'S  QUESTION 39 

PRELUDE  FOR  "  A  BOOK  OF  Music  " 40 

Music  AT  TWILIGHT .     .  44 

Music  IN  MOONLIGHT 47 

THE  UNKNOWN  SINGER .     .     .  49 

v 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  VOICE 50 

WAGNER 51 

"  THE  PATHETIC  SYMPHONY  "  (Tschaikowsky)    ....  51 

MACDOWELL 52 

A  FANTASY  OF  CHOPIN  (Gabrilowitsch) 54 

"  How  STRANGE  THE  MUSICIAN'S  MEMORY"      ....  54 

"  IN  A  NIGHT  IN  MIDSUMMER" 55 

IN  THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS 57 

JOHN  PAUL  JONES 58 

To  EMMA  LAZARUS  (1905) .     .  59 

CARL  SCHURZ 60 

GEORGE  MACDONALD 62 

JOSEPHINE  SHAW  LOWELL 64 

"  ONE  ROSE  OF  SONG"  (Mary  Putnam  Jacobi)     ....  67 

JOHN  MALONE  (1906) 69 

"  LOST  LEADERS  "  (City  Club  Memorial  in  Honor  of  Wheeler 
H.  Peckham,  James  C.  Carter,  William  H.  Baldwin,  Jr., 

and  Norton  Goddard) 70 

ON  A  CERTAIN  AGNOSTIC  (G.  E.) 72 

"A  WEARY  WASTE  WITHOUT  HER"  (L.  B.  P.)      ...  73 

THE  POET'S  SLEEP  (T.  B.  A.) 74 

WHERE  SPRING  BEGAN 74 

AVARICE 75 

PITY  THE  BLIND 76 

PROOF  OF  SERVICE  (To  R.  F.  C.) 77 

CONQUERED 78 

BLAME  (A  Memory  of  Eisleben,  the  Place  of  Luther's  Birth 

and  Death) . '     „      ......  79 

THE  WHISPERERS  (New  York,  1905)          .     *     ;     .     .     .  80 

vi 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

BEFORE  THE  GRAND  JURY 83 

"  IN  THE  CITIES" 85 

A  TRAGEDY  OF  TO-DAY  (New  York,  1905) 89 

THE  OLD  HOUSE 94 

"THERE'S  No  PLACE  LIKE  THE  OLD  PLACE"  (Old  Home 

Week,  Tyringham,  1905) 101 

GLEN  GILDER 109 

SONG:  MARIA  MIA 112 

OBSCURATION 114 

"I  DREAMED" 114 

IMPROMPTUS : 

"  FROM  LOVE  To  LOVE  "  (For  a  wedding)    .      .     .115 
"I  ASKED  ..You  TO  READ  MY  POEM"     ....   115 

NAZIMOVA 116 

A  WARRIOR  OF  TROY 116 

THE  OBELISK  (1881) 117 

CROWNED  ABSURDITIES 117 

To  "  LITTLE  LADY  MARGARET  " — WITH  A  BOOK  OF 

POEMS 117 

SACRILEGE 118 

To  THE  HERO  OF  A  SCIENTIFIC  ROMANCE  .     .     .118 
THE  WATCHMAN  ON  THE  TOWER  (January,  1907)  .      .      .119 
UNDER  THE  STARS;    A  REQUIEM  FOR  AUGUSTUS  SAINT 
GAUDENS  .  125 


Vll 


THE    FIRE    DIVINE 


THE  FIRE  DIVINE 

HE  who  hath  the  sacred  fire 
Hidden  in  his  heart  of  hearts, 
It  shall  burn  him  clean  and  pure, 
Make  him  conquer,  make  endure. 
He  to  all  things  may  aspire, 
King  of  days,  and  souls,  and  arts. 
Failure,  fright  and  dumb  dismay 
Are  but  wings  upon  his  way. 
Imagination  and  desire 
Are  his  slaves  and  implements. 
Faiths  and  foul  calamities, 
And  the  eternal  ironies, 
Are  but  voices  in  his  choir. 
Musician  of  decreed  events  — 
Hungers,  happinesses,  hates, 
Friendships  lost,  all  adverse  fates, 
All  passions  and  all  elements, 
ii 


THE    FIRE    DIVINE 

Are  but  golden  instruments 

In  his  glorious  symphonies. 

Subject  to  his  firm  decrees 

Are  the  heavens,  are  the  seas; 

But  in  utter  humbleness 

Reigns  he,  not  to  ban,  but  bless, — 

Cleansed,  and  conquering,  and  benign 

Bearer  of  the  fire  divine. 


12 


THE   INVISIBLE 

(AT  A  LECTURE) 

OUCH  pictures  of  the  heavens  were  never  seen. 
^  We  stood  at  the  steep  edge  of  the  abyss 
And  looked  out  on  the  making  of  the  suns. 
The  skies  were  powdered  with  the  white  of  stars 
And  the  pale  ghosts  of  systems  yet  to  be; 
While  here  and  there  a  nebulous  spiral  told, 
Against  the  dark,  the  story  of  the  orbs — 
From  the  impalpable  condensing  slow 
Through  ages  infinite. 

Each  mighty  shape 

Seemed  as  the  shape  of  speed, —  a  whirling  wheel 
Stupendously  revolving, — 
And  yet  no  eye  of  man  may  see  it  stir. 
(That  moveless  motion  brings  to  the  human  brain 
A  hint  of  the  large  measurements  of  time, — 
Eternity  made  present.) 


THE    INVISIBLE 

Such  new  sense 

Of  magnitudes  that  make  our  world  an  atom 
Might  crush  the  soul,  did  not  this  saving  thought 
Leap  to  the  mind  and  lift  it  to  clear  heights:  — 
"  'T  is  but  the  unseen  that  grows  not  old  nor  dies,— 
Suffers  not  change,  nor  waning,  nor  decay. 
This  that  we  see, —  this  casual  glimpse  within 
The  seething  pit  of  space,  —  these  million  stars 
And  worlds  in  making,  these  are  nought  but  matter ; 
These  all  are  but  the  dust  upon  our  feet, 
And  we  who  gaze  forth  fearless  on  the  sight 
Find  not  one  equal,  facing  from  the  vast 
Our  sentient  selves.     Not  one,  sole,  lonely  star 
In  all  the  infinite  glitter  and  deep  light 
Can  make  one  conscious  movement;  all  are  slaves 
To  law  material,  immutable, — 
That  Power  immense,  mysterious,  intense, 
Unseen  as  our  own  souls,  but  which  must  be 
Like  them  the  home  of  thought,  with  will  and  might 
To  stamp  on  mindless  matter  the  soul's  will. 
For  in  these  souls  of  ours  triumphant  dwells 
Some  segment  of  the  large  creative  Power, — 
A  thing  beyond  the  things  of  sight  and  sense, — 
A  strength  to  think,  a  force  to  conquer  force ; 
Something  unquenchable,  eterne,  divine." 

14 


DESTINY 

(AFTER  READING  A  WORK  ON  ASTRONOMY) 

I  SEE  it  all;  my  soul  the  dregs  hath  drunk 
Of  man's  last,  helpless,  hopeless  destiny; 
Born  of  the  primal  ooze,  where  slow  light  sunk, 
And  climbing  to  the  secrets  of  the  sky; 

Through  countless  million  years  the  spiral  mounts 
Till  nature,  a  companionable  slave, 
Bows  to  man's  bidding;  lo,  then,  the  deep  founts 
Run  gradual  dry,  earth  turns  its  own  chill  grave. 

The  insatiate  desert  marches  on  the  sown, 
The  sea  exhales,  the  very  air  is  gone, 
And,  gasping  in  the  silent  void,  the  race 

Dies  with  the  planet. —  But  not  this  the  doom 
Of  man's  outlooking  soul;  that  hath  no  tomb, 
Being  quenchless  as  the  law  and  lord  of  space. 


THE  OLD  FAITH 

ON  that  old  faith  I  will  take  hold  once  more  — 
Now  that  the  long  waves  bear  me  to  the  shore 
And  life's  brief  voyage  is  o'er; 

Near  is  the  looked-for  land, — 
One  wild  leap  on  the  strand 
And  the  dear  souls  I  loved  of  old 
I  shall  again  be-hold, 
And  arms  that  held  me  once,  shall  hold  again. 

In  blinding  ways  of  men 
Long  did  I  mourning  doubt, 

Saying — "  Into  the  universe  have  they  gone  out 
And  shall  be  lost 

In  the  wide  waves  of  unseen,  infinite  force; 
For  nature  heeds  not  all  the  bitter  cost 
But  rushes  on  its  course 
Unto  the  far,  determined  goal, 
Without  self-conscious  knowledge,  or  remorse." 

16 


THE  OLD  FAITH 

But  now  the  time  is  come,  the  test  draws  near, 
And  sudden  my  soul  is  innocent  of  fear. 

O  ye  beloved!     I  come!     I  cry 
With  the  old  passion  ye  shall  not  deny! 
I  know  you,  as  I  knew 
When  life  was  in  its  dew; 

Ah,  nought  of  me  has  suffered  inward  change, 
Nor  can  be  change  essential  even  in  you, 
However  far  the  freer  spirit's  range. 
Soul  shall  find  soul;  there  is  no  distance 
That  bars  love's  brave  insistence, 
And  nothing  truly  dies 
In  all  the  infinite  realm  of  woe  and  weal; 
Throughout  creation's  bound  thrill  answers  thrill 
And  love  to  love  replies. 


THE  DOUBTER'S  SOLILOQUY 

A  WHITE  lie,  even  as  the  black,  I  learned  to 
hate; 

Being  taught  clear  truth  by  honest  parentage, 
And,  haply,  somewhat  morbid  in  this  matter. 
'T  would  come,  I  fear,  not  easy  to  deceive 
Even  death-beds,  for  their  good,  that  men,  indeed, 
Might,  as  they  say,  "  die  happy."     Not  that  I 
Have  never  eased,  by  little  lies  that  helped, — 
(Being  gray  with  years),  to  smooth  a  neighbor's  path, 
Or  even  mine  own.     And  I  have  read  brave  tales 
Wherein  the  hero  like  a  hero  lied, 
And  saved  the  other  hero  from  some  shame, 
Or  loss,  or  ill  that  seemed  itself  a  lie. 
Such  tragi-comedies,  I've  thought,  mayhap 
Argued  a  sophist  mind  in  them  who  wrote. 

Once  reading  such  a  pretty  history 
The  thought  came  on  me  with  a  sickening  stroke: 

18 


THE  DOUBTER  S  SOLILOQUY 

"  But  what  of  all  the  martyrs  who  died  singing, 

Smiling  and  singing  in  the  face  of  pain, — 

Of  tortured,  useless  death;  seeing  just  beyond 

The  flame,  the  scorch,  the  shudder — sudden  joy; 

Joy  so  intense  it  threw  a  splendor  back 

Into  the  midst  of  unfelt  agonies! 

And  what  of  those, —  the  unknown  martyrdoms, — 

The  myriads  of  faithful,  humble  souls 

Who  horribly  suffered  through  long,  faithful  lives, 

Seeing  the  peace  of  God  beyond  the  strife! 

What  of  all  these  if  there  be  no  awakening? 

If  He  permitted  the  Colossal  Lie 

As  opiate  for  the  agony  of  life  — 

Who  were  the  sophist  then?" 

But  a  voice  spake 

And  said:     "  Your  argument  requires  a  God 
All  powerful,  all  present,  and  all  wise, 
Who  could  prevent  false  notions  of  Himself 
And  His  designs,  to  fasten  on  men's  minds. 
If  such  a  God  exists  this  is  most  sure 
He  wills  not  to  make  plain  His  character 
And  mode  of  government;  witness  through  time 
A  thousand  gods,  religions  without  end, 
Each  in  some  souls,  all  reverent  and  sincere, 
Supreme,  unquestioned;  gods  that  grimly  held 

19 


THE   DOUBTER  S  SOLILOQUY 

Races  and  ages  round  about  their  thrones. 

4 *  Your  very  doubt  creates  a  mighty  Power, 
Invisible,  yet  having  human  traits, 
And  Him  you  judge  with  your  sole,  finite  mind, — 
You  doubt,  you  dread,  you  trouble  your  sad  soul. 
Were  it  not  best  to  follow  those  twin  stars 
Which  light  each  mortal  path :  the  double  stars 
Of  Love  and  Duty?     If  by  these  you  walk 
(This  has  been  proved),  a  solace  shall  arrive,— 
A  noble  solace,  a  majestic  joy. 
Whatever  of  life  is  worthy  of  the  soul 
Then  shall  be  yours. — Disdain,  disdain  all  else!  " 


20 


LAW 

r  I  ""RUE  love  to  liberty  is  never  foe, 
-*-     And  he  who  truly  loves  is  truly  free: 
Thus  thought  I  when  I  heard  the  pulsing  flow 
Of  mighty  music  rushing  gloriously 

Along  the  channels  of  unchanging  law; 

Thus  thought  I  when  I  gazed  upon  the  skies 
And  there  the  circling  universe  I  saw 
Moving  obedient  in  glad  harmonies 

About  a  central,  inescapable  power: 

No  sun,  nor  planet,  nor  wild  comet's  course 
But  owns  that  sway  in  every  separate  hour 

Of  all  its  centuries ;  to  that  one  force 

Freely  it  yields, —  as  hearts  that  never  rove 
But  pour  their  being  in  a  single  love. 


21 


SOULS 

AND  can  it  be? 
The  heart  that  in  the  earth's  far  dawn  knew 

God; 

The  thought  that  seized  the  circling  of  the  stars; 
The  soul  of  fire  that  on  that  hill  of  Athens 
Builded  immortal  beauty;  the  brain  enorm 
That  peopled  for  all  men  and  for  all  time 
A  world  Shakespearian;  and  can  it  be? — 
The  mind  imperial  named  Beethoven, 
Majestically  chanting  harmonies 
That  hold  the  motions  of  the  rhythmic  worlds, 
And  to  far  doomsday  stir  all  living  hearts; 
And  he  the  framer  of  earth's  mightiest  dome, 
Painter  sublime  and  poet  marvelous, 
Who  carved  the  likeness  of  his  soul  in  stone, 
And  in  cold  marble  the  hot  heart  of  man 
Imprisoned  eternally;  and  can  it  be? — 

22 


SOULS 

These,  these  and  all  the  potencies  of  time 
Which  throbbed  in  human  form;  and  can  it  be 
That  the  intensive  fire  that  made  them  men, — 
Not  trees,  nor   creeping   beasts,   nor    stones,    nor 

stars, — 

And  gave  identity  to  every  soul 
Making  it  individual  and  alone 
Among  the  myriads;  and  can  it  be 
That  when  the  mortal  framework  failed, — that  fire 
Which  flamed  in  separate  and  lonely  life, 
These  souls,  slipped  out  of  being,  and  were  lost, 
Eternally  extinguished  and  cast  out, — 
Only  to  some  obscure  electric  wave 
Giving  new  force,  to  some  stray  flower  new  grace, 
Unto  some  lover's  vow  more  ardency; 
Making  some  island  sunset  more  intense, 
Passing  from  fiery  thought  to  chemic  heat, — 
But  all  the  universe  empty  of  that  one  high 
And  exquisite  accomplishment  and  power, 
Forever  and  forever, —  can  it  be? 


SPARE  ME    MY  DREAMS" 


T3  ELENTLESS   Time,   that    gives   both    harsh 
-*- *•         and  kind, 

Brave  let  me  be 
To  take  thy  various  gifts  with  equal  mind, 

And  proud  humility; 

But,  even  by  day,  while  the  full  sunlight  streams, 
Give  me  my  dreams! 

ii 

Whatever,  Time,  thou  takest  from  my  heart, 

What  from  my  life, 

From  what  dear  thing  thou  yet  may'st  make  me 
part  — 

Plunge  not  too  deep  the  knife; 
As  dies  the  day,  and  the  long  twilight  gleams, 
Spare  me  my  dreams! 


HYMN 

(THANKSGIVING  FOR  SAINTS  AND  PROPHETS) 

TO  Thee,  Eternal  Soul,  be  praise! 
Who,  from  of  old  to  our  own  days 
Through  souls  of  saints  and  prophets,  Lord, 
Hast  sent  Thy  light,  Thy  love,  Thy  word. 

We  thank  Thee  for  each  mighty  one 
Through  whom  Thy  living  light  hath  shone; 
And  for  each  humble  soul  and  sweet 
That  lights  to  heaven  our  wandering  feet. 

We  thank  Thee  for  the  love  divine 
Made  real  in  every  saint  of  Thine; 
That  boundless  love  itself  that  gives 
In  service  to  each  soul  that  lives. 

25 


HYMN 

We  thank  Thee  for  the  word  of  might 
The  Spirit  spake  in  darkest  night; 
Spake  through  the  trumpet  voices  loud 
Of  prophets  at  Thy  throne  who  bowed. 

Eternal  Soul,  our  souls  keep  pure, 
That  like  Thy  saints  we  may  endure; 
Forever  through  Thy  servants,  Lord, 
Send  Thou  Thy  light,  Thy  love,  Thy  word. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  LIFE 

WHEN  I   was    a   child   joyfully   I    ran,    hand 
clasped  in  hand,   now  with  my  mother,  now 
with  my  father,  or  with  younger,  blithe  companions, 
now  in  sunlight,  now  in  shadow  and  dread,  through 
the  strange  new  Valley  of  Life. 

Sometimes  on  the  high-road,  then  over  the  fields 
and  meadows,  or  through  the  solemn  forests; 
sometimes  along  the  happy  brook-side,  listening  to 
its  music  or  the  roaring  of  the  falls,  as  the  pleasant 
waters  hurried  or  grew  still,  in  the  winding  way 
down  the  Valley  of  Life. 

And  as  we  went  along,  hand  clasped  in  hand, 
sometimes  the  hand-clasp  was  broken,  and  I,  a 
happy  child,  ran  swiftly  aside  from  the  path  to 
gather  flower  or  fruit  or  get  sight  of  a  singing  bird; 
or  to  lean  down  and  pluck  a  pearly  stone  from 
under  the  lapping  waves;  or  climbed  a  tree  and 
swayed,  shouting,  on  its  waving  boughs, — then 
returned  to  the  clasp  of  loving  hands,  and  so  passed 
on  and  on  down  the  opening  Valley  of  Life. 

27 


THE  VALLEY  OF  LIFE 

In  the  bright  morning  I  walked  wondering;  won- 
dering I  walked  through  the  still  twilight  and 
many-colored  sunset;  watching  the  great  stars 
gather,  and  lost  in  the  mystery  of  worlds  beyond 
number,  and  spaces  beyond  thought,  till,  side  by 
side,  we  lay  down  to  sleep  under  the  stars  in  the 
Valley  of  Life  and  of  Dreams. 

Then  there  came  a  time  when  the  hands  that 
held  me  —  the  loving  hands  that  guided  my  steps 
and  drew  me  gently  on  —  turned  cold,  and  slipped 
from  my  grasp;  I  waited,  but  they  came  not  back, 
and  slowly  and  alone  I  plodded  on  down  the  Valley 
of  Life  and  of  Death. 

"Where  went  they?" — I  asked  my  heart  and  the 
whispering  waters  and  the  sighing  trees, — "Where 
went  my  loving  and  well-beloved  guides?  Did  they 
climb  the  hills  and  tarry;  did  they,  tired,  lie  down 
to  sleep  and  forget  me  forever;  leaving  me  to 
journey  on  without  their  dear  care  down  the  long 
Valley  of  Life  ?" 

I  could  not  know,  for  I  heard  no  answer  except 
my  own  heart's  beating.  But  other  comrades 
came, —  one  dearer  than  all, —  and  as  time  went  on 
I  felt  the  little  hands  of  my  own  children  clasping 
mine  while,  once  more  happy  and  elate,  with 

28 


THE  VALLEY  OF  LIFE 

them  I  travelled  down  the  miraculous  Valley  of 
Life. 

But,  as  on  I  wander,  hearing  their  bright  voices, 
and  seeing  their  joy  upon  the  way, — their  happy 
chasings  here  and  there,  their  eager  run  to  hold 
again  our  hands, —  how  soon,  I  think,  shall  I  feel 
the  slipping  away  of  the  clasping  fingers  while  I 
fall  asleep  by  the  wayside,  or  climb  the  cloud- 
enveloped  hills,  and  leave  those  I  love  to  journey 
on  down  the  lonely  Valley  of  Life? 

And  I  say :  "  Surely  the  day  and  the  hour  hasten  ; 
grief  will  be  theirs  for  a  season;  then  will  they,  as 
did  I,  with  brave  hearts  journey  on  the  appointed 
way."  But  where  then  shall  my  spirit  rest?  Will  it 
sink  unconscious  into  endless  night?  or  shall  I,  in 
some  new  dawn,  and  by  some  unimagined  miracle 
not  less  than  that  which  brought  me  here,  wander, 
with  those  that  led  me  once,  and  those  I  led,  hand 
clasped  in  hand,  as  of  old,  by  the  murmuring  waters 
and  under  the  singing  trees  of  the  ever-wonderful, 
the  never-ending  Valley  of  Life? 


29 


TO  ONE  IMPATIENT  OF  FORM 
IN  ART 


not  the  poet  that  he  strives  for  beauty, 
If    still    forthright    he    chants    the    thing    he 
would, — 

If  still  he  knows,  nor  can  escape,  the  dire 
Necessity  and  burden  of  straight  speech ; 

Not  his  the  fault  should  music  haunt  the  line, 
If  to  the  marrow  cleaves  the  lyric  knife. 

Who  poured  the  violent  ocean,  and  who  called 
Earthquake  and  tempest  and  the  crash  of  doom, 

He  spread  the  sea  all  beautiful  at  dawn, 
And  curved  the  bright  bow  'gainst  the  black,  spent 
storm, — 

He  framed  these  late  and  lovely  violets 
That  under  autumn  leaves  surprise  the  heart. 

Blame  not  the  seeker  of  beauty  if  his  soul 
Seeks  it,  in  reverent  and  determined  quest, 

30 


TO  ONE  IMPATIENT  OF  FORM  IN  ART 

And  in  the  sacred  love  of  loveliness 

Which  God  the  all-giver  gave  —  and  satisfies; 

• 

Fearing  lest  he  match  not  life's  poignant  breath 
And  the  keen  beauty  of  the  blossoming  day. 

11 

No  poet  he  who  knows  not  the  great  joy 
That  pulses  in  the  flow  and  rush  of  rhythm, 

(Rhythm  which  is  the  seed  and  life  of  life, 

And  of  all  art  the  root,  and  branch,  and  bloom), 

Knows  not  the  strength  that  comes  when  vibrant 

thought 
Beats  'gainst  the  bounds  of  fixe"d  time  and  space ; 

For  law  unto  the  master  is  pure  freedom, 
The  prison-house  a  garden  of  delight. 

So  doth  the  blown  breath  from  the  bugle's  walls 
Issue  in  most  triumphant  melody; 

So  doth  the  impassioned  poet's  perfect  verse, 
Confined  in  law  eterne,  outshine  the  stars. 


31 


TO  THE  POET 

T  ET  not  thy  listening  spirit  be  abashed 
•* — '  By  the  majestic  ranks  of  ancient  bards 
Or  all  the  clarion  singers  of  thy  day : 
For  in  thy  true  and  individual  song 
Thou  art  a  voice  of  nature, — as  the  wind, 
And  cries  of  moving  waters,  and  all  shows 
And  speaking  symbols  of  the  universe 
Are  but  the  glorious  sound  and  utterance 
Of  the  mysterious  power  that  spake  the  Word  — 
The  immense  first  word  that  filled  with  splendid  light 
And  vibrant  potency  the  house  of  life ; 
Whose  candles  are  a  million,  million  stars, 
Whose  windows  look  on  gulfs  unthinkable 
That  bound  our  world.    Think  not  on  thine  own  self, 
But  on  the  enormous  currents  silently 
That  flood  the  unseen  channels  of  still  force, 
Or  with  the  sound  of  earthquake  and  the  shout 
Of  circling  storms  complete  an  unknown  doom. 

32 


TO  THE  POET 

Thine  is  the  fate  and  function  mystical, 
In  forms  of  lyric  and  eternal  art, 
Clearly  to  utter  and  re-syllable 
The  primal  Word :  —  So  is  thy  verse  of  kin 
To  the  sea-shell,  the  lily  and  the  leaf. 
It  hath  a  natural  right  and  majesty, 
Being  of  the  infinite,  all-evolving  power 
True  jet  and  symbol;  kin  to  the  morning  star 
That  in  the  sky  of  dawn  sings  with  its  mates. 


33 


COMPENSATION 

Angel  of  Life  stood  forth  on  the  threshold 

of  Birth 

And  converse  held  with  a  spirit  about  to  be  born; 
And  the  Angel  announced  to  the  Soul  awaiting  its 

world : 
Choose  thou!  for  now  thou  must  choose,  and  never 

hereafter. 
And  if  thou  to  beauty  shalt  bow,  to   Beauty  and 

Art, 

And  if  to  thy  spirit  all  exquisite  things  be  revealed, 
If   the    fate    of  the    poet  be  thine,  if   a  god   thou 

would'st  be, 
If  thou    in   thy  soul   would'st   joyfully   seize    and 

encompass 
The  glories  and  grandeurs  of  earth,  the  sweetness 

supreme, 

The  vision  angelic,  forbidden  to  eyes  unanointed, 
The  melodies  silent  to  all  save  the  holy  of  spirit, 
The  signs  and  the  secrets,  the  splendors,  the  exalta- 
tions, 

34 


COMPENSATION 

If  these  thou  shalt  choose,  if  these  thou  would'st 

know  and  impart, 
Even  so, —  but  forget  not  the  price  of  the  infinite 

wisdom, 
For  the  price  of  the  passion  of  joy  is  the  passion  of 

sorrow, — 
And   the   cost  of   thy  heaven   is  the  burning  and 

anguish  of  hell. 


35 


THE  POET'S  SECRET 

THE  secret — he  has  learned  it 
And  only,  only  he : 
Heaven  in  his  heart  hath  burned  it; 

To  him  alone  't  is  free, 
And  them  from  him  who  learned  it 

In  wise  simplicity. 
From  thousand  suns  it  flashes, 

It  leaps  in  flower  and  flame; 
The  spring,  from  winter's  ashes, 

Cries  out  its  silent  name  — 
The  secret  of  the  ages 

That,  to  the  poet  came. 
Unknown  to  all  the  sages 

However  wise  they  be, 
Through  his  quick  veins  it  rages 

And  soul  of  ecstasy; 
It  lightnings  from  his  pages, 
.    In  all  his  songs  't  is  sung: 
The  secret  of  the  ages  — 

To  be  forever  young. 


-THE  DAY  BEGAN  AS  OTHER 
DAYS  BEGIN" 

THE  day  began  as  other  days  begin, — 
The  round  of  work,  the  implacable  city's  din; 
The  New  World's  Babel,  louder  with  each  hour. 
Then  in  a  by-way, —  a  still,  secret  bower, — 
A  temple  given  to  silence  and  to  books;  — 
And  in  its  heart  a  sacred  nook  of  nooks. 
There,  in  the  silence,  from  a  priceless  store 
Of  written  tomes,  a  guardian  of  their  lore 
A  manuscript  uplifted  to  my  view, 
With  reverent,  loving  hands, —  and  then  withdrew. 

Opening  the  book  my  gaze  fell  on  that  line 
Wherein  the  marvelous  poet,  the  divine 
Singer  of  Endymion,  his  deathless  song 
Began,  and  so  beginning  made  immortal. 

37 


"THE  DAY  BEGAN  AS  OTHER  DAYS  BEGIN" 


O  dead,  undying  bard!  now  all  the  wrong 
Fate  did  thee  rose;  through  Memory's  draped  portal 
Trooped,  in  wan  figures,  all  thy  tragic  story, — 
But  mightier  still  the  wonder  and  the  glory 
Of  that  white  page  whereon  thy  soul  was  poured. 
Then  with  thy  spirit  my  spirit  likewise  soared; 
Something  immortal  entered  in  this  breast 
Miraculously;  and  like  one  confessed 
And  throughly  shriven,  back  to  the  world  I  turned 
While  a  new  heart  within  me  flamed  and  burned. 

And  yet  that  morn,  when  grew  the  glare  and  din, 
The  day  began,  as  other  days  begin. 


A  POET'S  QUESTION 

WHAT  then  shall  make  these  songs  of  mine 
more  real ; 

More  tuneful,  piercing,  bright, —  miraculous, 
As   art   should    be?     Shall    some    high,    fortunate 

chant, 

Some  song  to  come,  flood  backward  on  them  all, — 
Over  every  word  in  all  the  singing  flock, — 
A  light,  a  meaning;  a  power  to  seize,  to  thrill; 
A  swift  beatitude  and  haunting  beauty; 
Shall  make  of  them  a  trouble  to  the  base, 
Scourge  to  the  false,  sun  to  the  darkened  soul, 
Help  to  the  fainting,  succor  to  the  bruised, 
A  judgment  to  the  heeding  and  unheeding? 
Or  shall  a  flame  leap  from  the  singer's  flight, 
Making  them  luminous  in  sudden  dawn, — 
Bright  in  the  chrism  of  Death. 


39 


PRELUDE  FOR 
"A  BOOK  OF  MUSIC" 

WITHOUT  intent,  I  find  a  book  I  've  writ 
And  music  is  the  pleasant  theme  of  it; 
For  though  I  can  no  music  make,  I  trust 
Here  's  proof  I  love  it. 

Though  no  reasoning  fine 
Should  any  ask  to  show  this  art  divine, 
Yet  have  I  known  even  poets  who  refuse 
To  name  pure  music  as  an  equal  muse. 
If  music  pleased  them,  't  was  not  deeply  felt, 
And  in  its  charms  they  deemed  it  shame  to  melt; 
For  that,  they  held,  it  is  an  art  where  might 
Even  children  give  its  votaries  delight, 
And  therefore  lacking  in  the  things  of  mind. 

40 


PRELUDE  FOR  UA  BOOK  OF  MUSIC  " 


But  't  is  not  argued  well.     There  is  a  kind 
Of  music  that  a  little  child  can  give, 
Echoing  great  masters;  but  the  masters  live 
Not  in  such  echo  —  elfish,  immature; 
'T  is  but  a  part  of  them.     Ah,  be  ye  sure 
Though  lovely,  not  the  loveliest;  that  must  wait 
For  him  who  noble  moods  can  recreate 
With  solemn,  subtile,  and  deep-thoughted  art 
That  wins  the  mind  or  ere  it  takes  the  heart. 
For  that  a  child  may  gracious  music  make 
Is  but  a  sign  that  music  doth  partake 
Of  something  deep,  primeval,  that  began 
When  God  dreamed  of  himself,  and  fashioned  man. 
'T  is  near  the  source  of  being;  it  repeats 
The  vibrancy  that  runs  in  rhythmic  beats 
Through  all  the  shaken  universe;  and  though 
Its  language  shall  take  not  the  ebb  and  flow 
Of  speech  articulate,  it  is  that  tone 
Cleaves  closer  to  life's  core;  the  thing  alone 
Well-nigh  it  is,  not  thought  about  the  thing; 
No  pictured  flight  across  a  painted  sky, — 
The  bird  itself,  the  beating  of  its  wing; 
The  pang  that  is  a  cry ; 
Not  human  language,  but  pure  ecstasy. 


PRELUDE  FOR  "A  BOOK  OF   MUSIC  " 


In  this  my  BOOK  OF  Music  which  hath  come 
As  does  a  lover's  litany  by  some 
Miraculous  chance,  with  added  song  to  song, 
I  trust  I  have  my  Lady  done  no  wrong, — 
My  Lady  of  Melody  I  worshiped  long. 

Blameless  the  artist  praises  the  sweet  rose 
If  in  his  art  he  aim  not  to  compose 
An  image,  all  inanimate,  that  seeks 
To  copy  shrewdly  those  inviolate  cheeks 
Or  the  rich,  natural  odor  imitate; 
But  shows,  as  best  he  can,  its  grace  and  state, 
The  love  that  in  him  burns  for  this  fair  flower, 
And  all  his  joy  therein,  for  one  sweet  hour. 
Nor  shall  the  poet  subtly  strive  to  phrase 
For  any  heart  save  his  what  music  says; 
For, — as  before  the  autumn  skies  and  woods, — 
A  meaning  gleams  through  our  own  human  moods 
Yet  is  the  meaning  real ;  and  many  a  wound 
Wherewith  our  spirits  are  beaten  to  the  ground 
Heals  'neath  the  sanctity  of  noble  sound. 

Ah,  not  to  match  the  music  of  the  wires 
Or  trembling  breath,  the  instruments  and  choirs, 
But  to  tell  truly  how  that  moves  the  soul 
In  the  impassionate  and  rhythmic  word, 

42 


PRELUDE  FOR  "A  BOOK  OF  MUSIC  " 


By  poesy's  proper  art, — which  must  be  heard 
Even  as  music  is!     Not  to  forget 
The  viol  and  the  harp,  the  clarinet, 
The  booming  organ;  too,  the  intertwined 
Voices  wherewith  the  sounding,  rich  clavier 
Struck  by  the  master's  hand  enchants  the  ear, — 
If  so  may  be  to  catch  a  fleeting  strain 
And  in  new  art  imprison  it  again! 
Then  let  him  list  to  music  who  would  rhyme; 
For  every  art,  though  separate,  may  learn, 
From  the  great  souls  in  all,  how  to  make  burn 
Brighter  the  light  of  beauty  through  all  time. 
And  scorn  not  thou  to  read  of  music's  power 
Over  one  soul  that  in  great  humbleness 
His  memory  brings  of  many  a  happy  hour, 
Hoping  these  echoed   tones  some  wounded  heart 
may  bless. 


43 


MUSIC  AT  TWILIGHT 


OH,  give  me  music  in  the  twilight  hour! 
Then,    skilled    musician!  thou   of   the  magic 

power, 

Summon  the  souls  of  masters  long  since  gone 
Who  through  thine  art  live  on! 

As  the  day  dies  I  would  once  more  respire 
The  passion  of  that  spirit  whose  keen  fire 
Flashes  and  flames  in  yearning  and  unrest 
And  never-ending  quest. 

Or  listen  to  the  quick,  electric  tones, 
Or  moods  of  majesty,  of  him  who  owns 
The  secret  of  the  thrill  that  shakes  the  earth 
And  moves  the  stars  in  mirth. 

And  I  would  walk  the  shore  of  sound  with  him 
Whose  voice  was  as  the  voice  of  cherubim : 
Musician  most  authentic  and  sublime 
Of  all  the  sons  of  time. 

44 


MUSIC  AT   TWILIGHT 

Bring  their  deep  joys,  the  breath  of  solitudes 
Dear  dreams  and  longings,  and  high,  hero  moods; 
Aye,  bring  me  their  melodious  despairs 
To  die  in  twilight  airs. 

For,  given  a  rhythmic  voice,  re-uttered  so, 
Sorrow  itself  is  lost  in  the  large  flow 
Of  nature;  and  of  life  is  made  such  part 
As  doth  enrich  the  heart; 

And  on  the  tide  of  music,  to  my  soul 
Shall  enter  beauty's  solace, —  life  be  whole, 
Not  broken  by  chords  discordant,  but  most  sweet, 
In  sequent  tones  complete. 

ii 

Great  is  the  true  interpreter,  for  like 
No  other  art,  two  sentient  souls  must  strike 
The  spark  of  music  that  in  blackness  lies 
'Mid  silent  harmonies, 

Till,  at  a  cunning  touch,  the  long-lost  theme 
Newly  imagined,  and  new-born  in  dream, 
Clothed  gloriously  in  garment  of  sweet  sound 
Wakes  from  its  darkened  swound. 

45 


MUSIC  AT  TWILIGHT 

So  would  I  ask,  Musician !  of  thy  grace 
That  thou  would'st  bless  and  sanctify  the  place 
With  august  harmonies,  well-loved  of  old;  — 
But  from  thy  manifold 

Miraculous  memory  fail  not  of  thine  own 
Imaginings  enraptured  of  pure  tone, 
That  I  may  nearer  draw  to  music's  shrine, 
And  mystery  divine. 


46 


MUSIC  IN  MOONLIGHT 

WAS  ever  music  lovelier  than  to-night? 
'T  was  Schumann's  Song  of  Moonlight;  o'er 

the  vale 

The  new  moon  lingered  near  the  western  hills; 
The  hearth-fire  glimmered  low;  but  melting  tones 
Blotted  all  else  from  memory  and  thought, 
And  all  the  world  was  music.     Wondrous  hour! 
Then  sank  anew  into  our  tranced  hearts 
One  secret  and  deep  lesson  of  sweet  sound  — 
The  loveliness  that  from  unloveliness 
Out-springs,  flooding  the  soul  with  poignant  joy, 
As  the  harmonious  chords  to  harsh  succeed, 
And  the  rapt  spirit  climbs  through  pain  to  bliss: 
Eternal  question,  answer  infinite; 
As  day  to  night  replies;  as  light  to  shade; 
As  summer  to  rough  winter;  death  to  life, — 
Death  not  a  closing,  but  an  opening  door; 
A  deepened  life,  a  prophecy  fulfilled. 

47 


MUSIC   IN  MOONLIGHT 

Not  in  the  very  present  comes  reply 
But  in  the  flow  of  time.     Should  the  song  cease 
Too  soon;  ere  yet  the  rooted  answer  blooms, 
Lo,  what  a  pang  of  loss  and  dissonance ! 
But  time,  with  the  resolving  and  intended  tone 
Heals  all,  and  makes  all  beautiful  and  right. 
Even  so  our  mortal  music-makers  frame 
Their  messages  melodious  to  men; 
Even  so  the  Eterne  his  mighty  harmonies 
Fashions,  supreme,  of  life,  and  fate,  and  time. 


48 


THE  UNKNOWN  SINGER 

ONE  singer  in  the  oratorio, 
Her  only  did  I  see,  nor  can  forget; 
Nor  knew  her  name,  nor  have  I  seen  her  more, 
Nor  could  I  in  the  chorus  find  her  voice. 
Her  swaying,  gracious  form,  her  face  alight 
As  with  an  inner  flame  of  melody  — 
These  seized  me;  seemed  the  white  embodiment 
Of  all  the  angelic  voices  richly  poured 
In  a  great  rushing  and  harmonious  flood. 
That  human  form,  all  beautiful  and  bright, 
Lived  the  pure,  conscious,  glorious  instrument 
Wherethrough  the  master  made  his  message  felt- 
Conscious,  but  with  no  shallow  vanity, 
A  breathing  image  of  a  thought  in  sound, 
A  living  statue,  symbol  of  a  tone. 
That  which  she  sang  she  was;  and,  unaware, 
Made  music  visible  not  less  than  heard. 


49 


THE    VOICE 

ICH  is  the  music  of  sweet  instruments,— 

The  separate  harp,  cornet,  oboe,  and  flute, 
The  deep-souled  viola,  the  'cello  grave, 
The  many-mooded,  singing  violin, 
The  infinite,  triumphing,  ivoried  clavier; 
And  when,  with  art  mysterious,  some  god 
Thrills  into  one  the  lone  and  various  tones, 
Then  is  no  hiding  passion  of  the  heart, 
No  sigh  of  evening  winds,  no  breath  of  dawn, 
No  hope  or  hate  of  man  that  is  not  told. 

But  when  a  human  voice  leaps  from  that  surge 
'T  is  as  a  flower  that  bursts  from  th'  trembling  earth  ; 
Something  more  wonderful  assails  the  soul, 
As,  with  exultant  cries,  up-curving,  swift, 
The  shrill  Walkiire  clamor  against  the  sky, 
Or  pale  Brunhilde  moans  her  bitter  fate. 


WAGNER 

THIS  is  the  eternal  mystery  of  art: 
He  told  the  secretest  secret  of  his  heart, — 
How  many  mortals,  with  quick-flaming  brow, 
Whispered,    "  Lo,  this  am  I, —  and  that  art  thou!" 


-THE   PATHETIC  SYMPHONY' 

(TSCHAIKOWSKY) 

WHEN   the   last   movement   fell,    I   thought 
Ah  me! 

Death  this  indeed;  but  still  the  music  poured 
On  and  still  on.     Oh,  deathlier  it  grew 
And  then,  at  last,  my  beating  heart  stood  still, — 
Beyond  all  natural  grief  the  music  passing, 
Beyond  all  tragedy,  or  last  farewell. 
Then,  on  that  fatal  tide,  dismayed  I  felt 
This  living  soul,  my  own,  without  one  tear, 
Slowly,  irrevocably,  and  alone, 
Enter  the  ultimate  silence  and  the  dark. 


MACDOWELL 

REJOICE!    Rejoice! 
The  New  World  hath  a  voice; 
A  voice  of  tragedy  and  mirth, 
Sounding  clear  through  all  the  earth; 
A  voice  of  music,  tender  and  sublime, 
Kin  to  the  master-music  of  all  time. 

Hear  ye,  and  know, — 
While  the  chords  throb  with  poignant  pause  and 

flow, — 

Of  the  New  World  the  mystic,  lyric  heart, 
Breathed  in  undaunted  art: 
Her  pomp  of  days,  her  glittering  nights; 
The  rich  surprise 
And  miracle  of  iridescent  skies; 
Her  lovely  lowlands  and  imperial  heights; 
Her  glooms  and  gladness; 
Her  oceans  thundering  on  a  thousand  shores; 
Her  wild-wood  madness; 

52 


MACDOWELL 

Her  streams  adream  with  memory  that  deplores 

The  red  inhabitants  evanished  and  undone 

That  follow,  follow  to  far  lands  beyond  the  setting 

sun. 

And  echoes  one  may  hear  of  ancient  lores 
From  the  Old  World's  well-loved  shores, — 
Primal  loves,  and  quenchless  hates; 
Striving  lives,  and  conquering  fates; 
Elves  innocently  antic 
Or  wild-eyed,  frantic ; 
Shadow-heroes,  passionate,  gigantic, — 
Sons  and  daughters  of  the  prime 
That  moved  the  mighty  bards  to  noble  rhyme. 

Rejoice!     Rejoice! 
The  New  World  hath  new  music,  and  a  voice. 


53 


A  FANTASY  OF  CHOPIN 

(GABRILOWITSCH) 

EiHTNINGS  and    tremblings  and    a    voice    of 
thunder; 

But  when  the  winds  are  down,   and  spent  the 
showers, — 

At    the   vast    mountain's    base,    the    sheer    cliffs 
under, 

How  sweet  the  summer  flowers. 


"HOW  STRANGE  THE  MUSICIAN'S 
MEMORY" 

T   T  OW   strange    the  musician's    memory,    never 

-*-  •**      wrong 

In  symphony,  sonata,  fugue  or  song! 
Sees  he  the  score  with  wide  unseeing  eyes, 
Or  is  it  sound  his  heart  doth  memorize? 
What  is  it  like?     Behold,  from  out  the  West, 
The  long  light  on  the  wild  wave's  flying  crest. 
See  the  swift  gleam  rush  up  the  leaning  strand 
And  die  in  foam  upon  the  singing  sand. 

54 


i 


IN  A  NIGHT  IN  MIDSUMMER" 

N  a  night  of  midsummer,  on  the  still  eastern 
shore  of  the  ocean  inlet, — 


In  our  hearts  a  sense  of  the  inaudible  pulsings  of 
the  unseen,  infinite  sea, — 

Suddenly  through  the  clear,  cool  air,  arose  the 
voice  of  a  wonderful  tenor;  soaring  and  sobbing 
in  the  music  of  "Otello." 

I  knew  that  the  singer  was  long  dead;  I  knew 
well  that  it  was  not  his  living  voice; 

And  yet  truly  it  was  as  the  voice  of  a  living  man ; 
though  heard  as  through  a  veil,  still  was  it  human; 
still  was  it  living;  still  was  it  tragic; 

Still  felt  I  the  fire  of  the  spirit  of  a  man;  I  was 
moved  by  the  passion  of  his  art;  I  perceived  the 
flower  and  essence  of  his  person;  the  exquisite  ex- 
pression of  his  mind,  and  soul; 

His  soul  it  was  that  seized  my  soul,  through  his 
voice,  which  was  as  the  very  voice  of  sorrow; 

55 


"IN  A  NIGHT  IN  MIDSUMMER" 


And  then  I  thought  :  If  man,  by  science  and 
searching,  can  build  a  cunning  instrument  that 
takes  over  and  keeps,  beyond  the  term  of  human 
existence,  the  essence  and  flower  of  a  man's  art; 

If  he  can  recreate  that  most  individual  attri- 
bute—  his  articulate  and  musical  voice,  and  thus 
the  very  art  and  passion  which  that  voice  con- 
veys,— 

Why  may  not  the  supreme  artificer,  when  the 
human  body  is  utterly  dissolved  and  dispersed, 
recover  and  keep  forever,  in  some  new  and  delicate 
structure,  the  living  soul  itself? 


IN  THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS 

MOUNTAINS  in  whose  vast  shadows  live  great 
names, 

On  whose  firm  pillars  rest  mysterious  dawns, 
And  sunsets  that  reclream  the  apocalypse; 
A  world  of  billowing  green  that,  veil  on  veil, 
Turns  a  blue  mist  and  melts  in  lucent  skies; 
A  silent  world,  save  for  slow  waves  of  wind, 
Or  sudden,  hollow  clamor  of  huge  rocks 
Beaten  by  valleyed  waters  manifold;  — 
Airs  that  to  breathe  is  life  and  joyousness; 
Days  dying  into  music;  nights  whose  stars 
Shine  near,  and  large,  and  lustrous;  these,  O  these, 
These  are  for  memory  to  life's  ending  hour. 


57 


JOHN    PAUL  JONES 


TOEHOLD  our  first  great  warrior  of  the  sea 
*-*  Who,  in  our  war  to  make  the  half  world  free, 
His  knightly  sword  in  noble  anger  drew! 
Born  to  the  Old  he  visioned  clear  the  New. 


ii 

Born  to  the  New  —  and  shall  we  lose  our  faith 
And  mourn  for  freedom  as  a  fleeing  wraith? 
Or  heroes  swift  as  he,  and  valorous,  find 
In  bloodless  battles  of  the  unfettered  mind! 


TO  EMMA  LAZARUS 

(1905) 

DEAR  bard  and  prophet,  that  thy  rest  is  deep 
Thanks  be  to  God !    Not  now  on  thy  heart  falls 

Rumor  intolerable.     Sleep,  O  sleep! 

See  not  the  blood  of  Israel  that  crawls, 
Warm  yet,  into  the  noon  and  night;  that  cries 

Even  as  of  old,  till  all  the  world  stands  still 

At  rapine  that  even  to  Israel's  agonies 

Seems  strange  and  monstrous,  a  mad  dream  of  ill. 
Thou  sleepest!     Yea,  but  as  in  grief  we  said:  — 

There  is  a  spiritual  life  unconquerable; 

So,  bard  of  the  ancient  people,  though  being  dead 
Thou  speakest,  and  thy  voice  we  love  full  well. 

Never  thy  holy  memory  forsakes  us; 

Thy  spirit  is  the  trumpet  that  awakes  us! 


59 


CARL  SCHURZ 

IN  youth  he  braved  a  monarch's  ire 
To  set  the  people's  poet  free; 
Then  gave  his  life,  his  fame,  his  fire 
To  the  long  praise  of  liberty. 

His  life,  his  fame,  his  all  he  gave 
That  not  on  earth  should  live  one  slave; 
True  freedom  of  the  soul  he  sought 
And  in  that  battle  well  he  fought. 

He  fought,  and  yet  he  loved  not  war, 
But  looked  and  labored  for  the  day 

When  the  loud  cannon  silent  are 

And  holy  peace  alone  hath  sway. 

Ah,  what  a  life!     From  youth  to  age 
Keeping  the  faith,  in  noble  rage. 
Ah,  what  a  life!     From  knightly  youth 
Servant  and  champion  of  the  truth. 
60 


CARL    SCHURZ 

Not  once,  in  all  his  length  of  days, 

That  falchion  flashed  for  paltry  ends; 

So  wise,  so  pure,  his  words  and  ways, 

Even  those  he  conquered  rose  his  friends. 

For  went  no  rancor  with  the  blow; 
The  wrong  and  not  the  man,  his  foe. 
He  smote  not  meanly,  not  in  wrath; 
That  truth  might  speed  he  cleaved  a  path. 

The  lure  of  place  he  well  could  scorn 

Who  knew  a  mightier  joy  and  fate, — 

The  passion  of  the  hope  forlorn, 
The  luxury  of  being  great, — 

The  deep  content  of  souls  serene 
Who  gain  or  lose  with  equal  mien; 
Defeat  his  spirit  not  subdued 
Nor  victory  marred  his  noble  mood. 


61 


GEORGE  MACDONALD 

AH,  loving,  exquisite,  enraptured  soul, 
Who  wert  to  me  a  father  and  a  friend ; 
Who  imaged  and  brought  near,  all  humanly, 
The  sweetness  and  the  majesty  of  him 
Who  in  Judea  melted  human  hearts, 
And  won  the  world  by  loveliness  and  love; 
Dear  spirit,  who  to  the  Infinite  Purity 
Passed,  without  change,  and  humbly  unabashed 
If  farewell  we  must  say,  it  is  that  thou 
So  far  beyond,  above,  we  —  alien  so 
From  grace  like  thine  —  may  hardly  follow  close 
Thy  shining  feet  in  fields  of  endless  light 
When  to  the  goal  of  souls  reborn  we  pass. 

Yet  couldst  thou  not  rest  happy  in  that  world 
Thou  saw'st  with  eyes  anointed,  near  that  Christ 
Who  wast  to  thee  a  human  brother  and  friend, 
If  we,  thy  brothers,  with  thee  came  not  nigh. 

62 


GEORGE    MACDONALD 

If  ever  saint  with  the  Eternal  strove, 
Then  wouldst  thou,  wilt  thou,  strive  and  supplicate 
That  not  one  soul  be  lost  or  suffer  ill, 
If  so  may  be,  but  win  to  the  Infinite  Love 
That  was  the  faith,  strength,  life  of  all  thy  days. 

Our  hearts  are  heavy  —  O,  yet  give  we  thanks, 
As  thou  didst  give  when  died  one  dear  to  thee, — 
Thanks  that  thou  livedst  —  that  we  knew  and  loved, 
Even  in  the  flesh,  one  who  was  one  with  God. 


JOSEPHINE  SHAW  LOWELL 

IT  was  but  yesterday  she  walked  these  streets 
Making  them  holier.     How  many  years, 
With  all  her  widowed  love,  immeasurably 
She  ministered  unto  the  abused  and  stricken, 
And  all  the  oppressed  and  suffering  of  mankind, - 
Herself  forgetting,  but  never  those  in  need; 
Her  whole,  sweet  soul  lost  in  her  loving  work; 
Pondering  the  endless  problem  of  the  poor. 

In  ceaseless  labor,  swift,  unhurriedly, 
She  sped  upon  her  tireless  ministries, 
Climbing  the  stairs  of  poverty  and  wrong, 
Endeavoring  the  help  that  shall  not  hurt, 
Seeking  to  build  in  every  human  heart 
A  temple  of  justice  —  that  no  brother's  burden 
Should  heavier  prove  through  human  selfishness. 

64 


JOSEPHINE    SHAW    LOWELL 

In  memory  I  see  that  brooding  face 
That  now  seemed  dreaming  of  the  heroic  past 
When  those  most  dear  to  her  laid  loyal  lives 
On  the  high  altar  of  freedom;  and  again 
That  thinking,  inward-lighted  countenance 
Drooped,  saddened  by  the  pain  of  human  kind, 
Though  resolute  to  help  where  help  might  be, 
And  with  undying  faith  illuminate. 

She   was  our  woman  of  sorrows,   whose   pure 

heart 

Was  pierced  by  many  woes;  and  yet  long  since 
Her  soul  of  sympathy  entered  the  peace 
And  calm  eternal  of  the  eternal  mind ; 
Inheritor  of  noble  lives,  she  held 
Even  to  the  end,  a  spirit  of  cheerfulness, 
And  knowledge  keen  of  the  deep  joy  of  being 
By  pain  all  unsubdued.     Sister  and  saint, 
Who  to  life's  darkened  passageways  brought  light, 
Who  taught  the  dignity  of  human  service, 
Who  made  the  city  noble  by  her  life, 
And  sanctified  the  very  stones  her  feet 
Pressed  in  their  sacred  journeys! 


JOSEPHINE    SHAW    LOWELL 

Most  High  God! 

This  city  of  mammon,  this  wide,  seething  pit 
Of  avarice  and  lust,  hath  known  Thy  saints, 
And  yet  shall  know.    For  faith  than  sin  is  mightier, 
And  by  this  faith  we  live, — that  in  Thy  time, 
In  Thine  own  time  the  good  shall  crush  the  ill; 
The  brute  within  the  human  shall  die  down; 
And  love  and  justice  reign,  where  hate  prevents, — 
That  love  which  in  pure  hearts  reveals  Thine  own 
And  lights  the  world  to  righteousness  and  truth. 


66 


ONE  ROSE  OF  SONG" 

(MARY  PUTNAM  JACOBI) 

One  rose  of  song 
For  one  sweet  deed 
On  her  grave  I  fling. 
But,  O,  how  can  I  sing 
When  she  takes  no  heed! 

My  rose  of  song 
For  a  fragrant  deed 
Though  she  takes  no  heed 
Still  must  I  bring. 

Though  she  needs  no  praise, 

Though  she  hears  not  my  song 

On  her  journey  long 

In  the  new  strange  ways, — 

O  still  must  I  sing, 

My  rose  I  must  fling, 

Just  to  ease  my  heart 

Of  the  sorrow  and  smart. 


"  ONE  ROSE  OF  SONG 

In  a  far-off  land 

She  stretched  forth  her  hand 

To  me  and  to  mine. 

And  now,  for  a  sign, 

This  song  I  sing 

And  this  rose  I  bring. 

Though  she  take  no  heed 
On  her  journey  long, 
Yet  a  soul  shall  hear, 
Some  soul  shall  take  heed, 
And  the  rose  and  the  deed, 
They  shall  sow  their  seed. 


68 


JOHN    MALONE 

THIS    actor    in    great    Shakespeare's    shadow 
moved; 
He  thought  his  thoughts,  he  lived  in  Shakespeare's 

age. 

His  were  the  tenets  of  that  mighty  stage: 
Therefore  we  mourn;  therefore  was  he  beloved. 


69 


"LOST    LEADERS" 


'T  OST  leaders" — no,  they  are  not  lost 
*--*  Like  shrunken  leaves  the  wild  wind  tost. 
Them  only  shall  we  mourn  who  failed ; 
When  came  the  fight  —  who  faltered,  quailed. 


Raged  not  through  blood  and  battle  grime 
These  heroes  of  our  land  and  time; 
The  foes  they  fought,  with  dauntless  deed, 
Were  shameless  vice  and  maddened  greed. 

in 

Not  lost,  not  lost  the  noble  dead  — 
By  them  our  doubting  feet  are  led. 
Stars  of  our  dark,  sun  of  our  day, 
They  guide,  they  light  the  climbing  way. 
70 


IV 


And  if,  in  their  celestial  flight, 
The  mist  hath  hid  those  forms  from  sight, 
Still,  down  the  stormy  path,  we  hear 
Their  hero-voices  ringing  clear. 


Who  for  their  fellows  live  and  die, 
They  the  immortals  are.     O  sigh 
Not  for  their  loss,  but  rather  praise 
The  God  that  gave  them  to  our  days. 


ON  A  CERTAIN  "AGNOSTIC" 

A    GNOSTIC!     Ah,  what  idle  name  for  him 
•**•  Who  knew  —  not  the  untruths  of  fables  old, 
Cherished  in  fear,  or  arrant  ignorance ; 
Who  knew  —  not   the    shrewd    structures  of    keen 

minds 

Intent  on  their  own  shrewdness;  losing  quite 
The  inner  truth  in  outward  scaffoldings, 
Cunning  appearances  and  schemes  involved ; 
But  who  knew  well  the  central  verity: 
That  honest  thought  followed,  without  dismay, 
Unto  the  bitter  and  accepted  end, 
Is  the  one  way  to  wisdom  in  this  world ; 
Who  knew  not  creeds,  but  could  not  help  but  follow 
The  feet  of  him  who  loved  his  fellow  men; 
Who  knew  that  human  service  is  true  life; 
Who  knew  deep  friendship,   lived   this  knowledge 

out, 

As  few  called  "  friends  "  have  ever  dared  to  live; 
And  who  knew  well  the  sacred  truth  of  love. 
Ah,  call  him  not  unknowing,  for  he  knew 
The  truth  of  truth, —  the  gods  can  know  no  more. 


72 


"A  WEARY  WASTE  WITHOUT 
HER" 

AWEARY  waste  without  her?  "     Ah,  but  think ! 
You  who  were   blest  with  the  most  sweet, 

most  near 

Knowledge  of  that  high  nature;  who  could  drink 
At  her  fresh  spirit's  fountain,  year  by  year, — 
What  were  the  past  without  her?     And  her  dear 
Image  and  memory —  did  they  too,  sink 
Into  the  abyss?  —  Herself  was  yours,  and  here 
Still  lives  remembrance;  a  bright,  golden  link 
'Twixt  this,  the  visible  world,  and  the  unknown 
Toward  which  we  journey, —  where  she  now  doth 

live, 

Close  to  the  Eternal  one.     Make  thou  no  moan; 
What  else  may  pass,  this  twofold  gift  endures; 
Give    thanks,    and   mourn    not   then. —  But,    O, 

forgive, — 
How  can  I  chide  who  mix  my  tears  with  yours? 


73 


THE  POET'S  SLEEP 

In  spite  of  it  all  I  am  going  to  sleep.     Put  out 
the  lights. — THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 

EVER  when    slept   the    poet   his  dreams  were 
music, 

And  in  sweet  song  lived  the  dear  dream  once  more. 
So  when  from  sleep  and  dreams  again  he  wakes  — 
Out  from  the  world  of  symbols  passing  forth 
Into  that  spirit- world  where  all  is  real  — 
What  memoried  music,  new  and  exquisite, 
Shall  strike  on  ears  celestial, — where  he  walks 
Reverent  among  the  immortal  melodists! 


WHERE  SPRING  BEGAN 

THE  days  were  cold,  and  clouded.     On  a  day 
Before  the  seasonable  warmth  and  sun 
The  poet  died.     We  bore  him  to  the  tomb 
And,  under  wreaths  and  flowers,  we  laid  him  down. 
Then  came  a  burst  of  sunshine.     Bright  it  poured 
On  the  banked  blossoms  and  the  leafless  trees. 
There,  at  the  poet's  grave,  the  spring  began. 


74 


AVARICE 

THEY  said,    "God  made  him,"  ah,    the  clean 
great  God ! 

Perhaps!  Even  as  he  made  the  loathed  beast 
Whose  use  is  to  take  offal  for  his  feast; 
As  he  made  viper  and  vermin  or,  at  a  nod, 

Made  hell,  to  do  some  necessary  part 

In  his  wide-stretched,  inscrutable  universe. 

Yes,  haply  God  imagined  him  for  a  curse, 

A  scourge,  a  vengeance ;  with  slow,  patient  art 

Him  did  he  fashion  cunningly;  saying:  "This 
My  sign  and  warning,  to  time's  distant  end, 
That  all  a  loveless  life  is  may  be  known, 

And  desolate  horror  of  pure  avarice; 

The  world  is  his, —  a  world  without  a  friend, — 
Without  one  friend  an  honest  man  would  own." 


75 


PITY  THE  BLIND 


PITY  the  blind!"     Yes,  pity  those 
Whom  day  and  night  inclose 
In  equal  dark;  to  whom  the  sun's  keen  flame 
And  pitchy  night-time  are  the  same. 


But  pity  most  the  blind 
Who  cannot  see 

That  to  be  kind 
Is  life's  felicity. 


PROOF  OF  SERVICE 

THOU  who  would'st  serve  thy  country  and  thy 
kind, 

Winning  the  praise  of  honorable  men 
And  love  of  many  hearts, —  know  the  true  proof 
Of  faithfulness  lies  not  therein.     That  dwells 
In  the  lone  consciousness  of  duty  done, 
And  in  the  scorn  and  contumely  of  souls 
Self-soiled  with  sin:  the  necessary  hate 
Of  perjured  and  contaminated  spirits 
For  that  whose  mere  existence  brings  reproach, 
Shame,  and  despair  for  something  lost  forever. 
When  thou  hast  won  the  hatred  of  the  vile 
Then  know  thou  hast  served  well  thy  fellow  men. 


77 


CONQUERED 

IN  thine  anger  it  was  said: 
"Would  that  mine  enemy  were  dead." 
Or,  if  thou  saidest  nought, 
That  was  thy  thought. 
Now  thou  cryest,  night  and  day: 
"  Mine  enemy  hath  conquered  in  our  fight, 
In  that  he  fled  away 
Into  the  darkness  and  the  night, 
Ere  I  to  justice  wakened  and  the  right. 
Now  this  through  all  the  anguished  hours  I  say, 
As  with  my  soul  my  soul  doth  strive : 
Would  God  mine  enemy  were  alive!  " 


BLAME 

(A    MEMORY    OF    EISLEBEN,    THE    PLACE    OF    LUTHER'S 
BIRTH    AND    DEATH) 

IN  a  far,  lonely  land  at  last  I  came 
Unto  a  town  made  great  by  one  great  fame. 
Born  here,  here  died  the  noblest  of  his  time, 
Whose  memory  makes  his  century  sublime. 
But,  O  my  God,  I  was  not  happy  there, 
For  down  below,  in  dark  and  caverned  air, 
Outstretched  and  cramped,  the  pallid  miners  lay. 
Their  shortened  lives,  their  absence  from  the  day, 
Burdened  my  spirit  with  a  sense  of  blame. 
Now  you,  and  you  —  I  see  you  flush  with  shame. 


79 


THE   WHISPERERS 


(NEW  YORK,  1905) 

TN  the  House  of  State  at  Albany  —  in  shadowy 
-•-  corridors  and  corners  —  the  whisperers  whis- 
pered together. 

In  sumptuous  palaces  in  the  great  city  men  talked 
intently,  with  mouth  to  ear. 

Year  in  and  year  out  they  whispered,  and  talked, 
and  no  one  heard  save  those  who  listened  close. 

Now  in  the  Hall  of  the  City  the  whisperers  again 
are  whispering,  the  talkers  are  talking. 

They  who  once  conversed  so  quietly,  secretly, 
with  shrugs  and  winks  and  finger  laid  beside  nose — 
what  has  happened  to  their  throats? 

For  speak  they  never  so  low,  their  voices  are  as 
the  voices  of  trumpets;  whisper  they  never  so  close, 
their  words  are  like  alarm  bells  rung  in  the  night. 

80 


THE    WHISPERERS 

Every  whisper  is  a  shout,  and  the  noise  of  their 
speech  goes  forth  like  thunders. 

They  cry  as  from  the  housetops  —  their  voices 
resound  up  and  down  the  streets;  they  echo  from 
city  to  city  and  from  village  to  village. 

Over  prairies  and  mountains  and  across  the  salt 
sea  their  whispers  go  hissing  and  shouting. 

They  say  the  thing  they  would  not  say,  and 
quickly  the  shameful  thing  clamors  back  and  forth 
over  the  round  world ; 

And  when  they  would  fain  cease  their  saying, 
they  may  not,  for  a  clear-voiced  Questioner  is  as 
the  finger  of  fate  and  the  crack  of  doom. 

What  they  would  hide  they  reveal,  what  they 
would  cover  they  make  plain; 

What  they  feared  to  speak  aloud  to  one  another, 
unwilling  they  publish  to  all  mankind; 

And  the  people  listen  with  bowed  heads,  wonder- 
ing and  in  grief; 

And  wise  men,  and  they  who  love  their  country, 
turn  pale  and  ask:  "What  new  shame  will  come 
upon  us?  " 

And  again  they  ask,  "Are  these  they  in  whose 
keep  are  the  substance  and  hope  of  the  widow  and 
the  fatherless? " 

81 


THE    WHISPERERS 

And  the  poor  man,  plodding  home  with  his  scant 
earnings  from  his  hard  week's  work,  hears  the 
voices,  with  bitterness  in  his  soul. 

And  thieves,  lurking  in  dark  places  and  furtively 
seizing  that  which  is  not  their  own;  and  the  petty 
and  cowardly  briber,  and  he  who  is  bribed,  nudge 
one  another; 

And  the  anarch  and  the  thrower  of  bombs  clap 
hands  together,  and  cry  out:  "Behold  these  our 
allies!" 


82 


BEFORE  THE  GRAND  JURY 

A   WOMAN,  who  has  been  a  man's  desire, 
Now  cast  aside  like  ashes  from  a  fire, 
With  startled  breath,  confessing  all  her  shame, 
Here, — looking  in  the  faces  of  strange  men, 
Who    probe    remorselessly    their    "where"    and 

"  when," — 

Falters  her  dreadful  story,  that  the  blame 
May  strike  on  the  betrayer.     In  that  glare 
Plead  piteous  answers  hardly  might  she  dare 
Murmur,  at  midnight,  on  a  mother's  breast. 
Was  ever  secret  misery  confest 
To  such  grim  audience! 

O  hapless  fate 
For  this  sweet  girl,  and  for  her  guiltier  mate. 

Powers  of  the  world,  and  O,  ye  Powers  Unseen, 
Be  stern,  yet  be  ye  kind!     Let  be  the  ends 

83 


BEFORE    THE    GRAND    JURY 

Of  justice  served;  but  hold  a  shield  between 
Souls  and  the  smiting  sword.      O,  make  amends 
In  the  oncoming  years,  or  some  far  age. 
They  are  but  caught  in  Nature's  deathless  rage; 
The  fire  that  in  their  bodies  burned  doth  hold 
The  sun  in  heaven ;  part  is  it  of  the  force 
That  keeps  the  stars  each  on  its  mystic  course, 
While  the  all-changing  universe  grows  never  old. 


"IN  THE  CITIES" 

IN  the  cities  no  longer  the  blowing  of  trumpets 
that  summon  to  battle, 

From  splendid  towers  the  banners  flash  not  forth 
in  the  breeze, 

No  longer  the  ringing  of  war-bells,  and  the  clatter- 
ing sound  of  horsemen, 

The  clangor  of  sword  on  shield,  nor  the  cries  of  the 
feudal  fighters 

Hurrying  into  the  streets  to  strike  with  bullet  and 
steel, 

Clamoring,   battering   down ;    assailing   high  walls 
and  windows; 

Rushing  maddened,  furious,  to  the  killing  of  fellow- 
men; — 

Yet  still  a  clangor  of  bells  and  a  loud,  shrill  whis- 
tling and  shouting, 

But  the  sharp,  quick  sounds  that  startle  proclaim 
not  anger  but  mercy. 
85 


IN  THE  CITIES" 


For  now,  like  winds  and  thunders,  rush  by  the  glit- 
tering engines, 
And  the  wagons,  with  ladders  and  axes,  laden  with 

well  trained  men 
Eager  to  quench  the  flame,  and  scale  the  dangerous 

battlements; 
Eager  to  risk  their  lives  in  the  hissing  blaze  and 

the  smoke 
That  blinds,    and    that  grips   the  throat    like   the 

throttling  hand  of  murder. 
On  come  the  engines  and  wagons,  and  the  Chief  in 

his  hooting  chariot, 
And  a  boy,  who  hears  them  approaching,   rushes 

out  to  the  crossing  of  ways, 
And,  swinging  his  arms  and  shouting,  clears  a  path 

for  the  shrieking  engine, 
That  rushes  like  winds  and  thunders  down  a  vale  of 

death  and  destruction, — 
And  every  man  at  his  post,  on  the  flying  winds  of 

the  storm, 
Mad  for  the  saving  of  lives  of  men  and  of  women 

and  children, 
To  creep  to  the  edge  of  death,  to  swing  in  dizzying 

chasms, 

86 


"IN  THE  CITIES" 


To  save  the  children  of  strangers,  forgetting  their 
own  in  their  madness; 

And  then  if  a  comrade  fall,  how  wild  each  man  to 
the  rescue, 

Descending  into  the  pit,  poisoned,  choked,  uncon- 
scious; 

Revived,  they  struggle  back  'gainst  their  officers' 
vain  commandings, — 

Mad,  mad,  mad,  for  the  saving  of  human  life. 

And  now,  in  the  days  of  peace  no  squadron  charg- 
ing by, 

But  hark !  down  the  street  a  sharp  reiterant  stroke 
and  clamor, 

A  rythmic   beating  of  hoofs,   a  galloping  louder, 
closer, 

And  again  a  youth  leaps  quick  to  the  crossing  of 
crowded  ways, 

And   he   swings   his  arms   and   shouts,  and  clears, 
through  the  human  currents, 

A  path  for  the  clattering  ambulance,  hurrying,  hur- 
rying, hurrying 

To  a  place  where  a  child   has  fallen,  is  wounded 
nigh  unto  death, 

That  the  child  may  be  tenderly  lifted  and  skillfully 
nursed  and  tended, — 
87 


UIN  THE  CITIES" 


Engine  and  clattering  ambulance  screaming,  ring- 
ing, impatient, 

Filling  the  frightened  streets  with  echoes  of  old- 
time  wars, 

Not  as  of  old  to  maim,  to  harry  and  scatter  destruc- 
tion; 

Not  to  take  life,  but  to  save  it;  not  to  kill,  but  to 
rescue  the  perishing. 


88 


A  TRAGEDY  OF  TO-DAY 

(NEW  YORK,   1905) 

T  N  a  little  theater,  in  the  Jewry  of  the  New  World, 
*-  I  sat  among  the  sad-eyed  exiles; 

Narrow  was  the  stage  and  meagerly  appointed, 
and  the  players  gave  themselves  up  utterly  to  their 
art; 

And,  before  our  eyes,  were  enacted  scenes  of  a 
play  that  scarcely  seemed  a  play. 

The  place  was  a  city  in  a  wide,  unhappy  land; 

Even  in  that  empire  which  drifts  to-day  like  a 
great  ship  toward  a  black  and  unknown  coast; 

While  men,  with  blanched  faces,  cry  out:  "tTn- 
less  the  tempest  abates  quickly,  behold  the  mighti- 
est wreck  on  all  the  shores  of  time! " 

And  the.  time  of  the  .drama  was  our  own  time; 
and  the  coming  and  the  going;  and  the  people 
themselves  were  of  our  own  day  and  generation; 


A    TRAGEDY    OF    TO-DAY 

The  people,  with  strange  beards,  and  look  of 
the  immemorial  Orient;  like  those  men  and  women 
who,  alien  and  melancholy,  plod  the  New-World 
streets ; 

Like  those  who,  in  slow  and  pitiful  procession,  on 
a  fixed  day  of  mourning,  with  dirges  and  wailings, 
poured  innumerous  into  the  city's  open  places; 

And,  as  the  play  went  on,  at  times  the  very 
speech  of  the  actors,  in  hot  debate,  crackled  and 
sputtered  like  the  fuse  of  a  Russian  bomb. 

And  there  an  old  man,  the  preacher  of  a  hunted 
race  and  a  despised  religion,  all  alone  called  to  his 
people  to  follow  him,  and  their  God,  the  God  of 
Israel. 

Passionately  he  proclaimed  the  faith  of  the 
fathers  and  the  saving  word  and  protecting  arm  of 
the  Almighty; 

He,  the  voice  and  the  prophet  of  the  Lord  High 
God,  called  aloud  to  them  who  strayed : 

"  Come  ye  back  to  your  God,  and  to  His  Ever- 
lasting Word. 

"You  young  men  who  have  forgotten  Him,  the 
Unforgetting,  and  you  old  men  mumbling  your 
prayers;  ye  cowards!  leaving  the  holy  shrine  un- 
protected;" 

90 


A    TRAGEDY    OF    TO-DAY 

And  the  young  men  answered  and  called  the 
old  man  the  name  of  them  who  are  dead  and  have 
passed  away; 

And  the  old  men,  unheeding,  swayed  to  and  fro, 
mumbling  their  ancient  psalms  and  ineffectual  sup- 
plications. 

Then,  while  the  noise  of  the  beastly  rabble 
swelled  louder  and  nearer  —  then  did  the  preacher 
turn  once  more  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  lifting  up  his 
voice  in  praise  and  prayer,  and  faith  unquench- 
able; 

Crying  to  God  with  a  loud  voice  and  saying: 
"  Lead  me,  Thou  Jehovah!  in  the  right  way, 

"  For  now  hath  come  the  great  day  of  the  Lord; 
now,  Lord,  save  Thy  people  and  bless  Thy  her- 
itage, 

4 'Thou  who  wert,  and  art,  and  ever  shalt  be! 
Show  now  Thy  Almightiness,  send  Thy  miracle  as 
lightning  from  on  high." 

Nearer  and  nearer  came  the  curses  and  shrieks 
and  the  wailing  lamentations;  and  men  and  women 
fled,  wounded,  before  the  infamous  and  infuriate 
avengers; 

Then  the  crash  of  guns  and  the  terror  of  car- 
nage and  rapine  unspeakable; 


A    TRAGEDY    OF    TO-DAY 

And,  in  the  midst,  the  voice  of  an  old  man  cry- 
ing to  heaven,  and  falling  smitten  and  dead  before 
the  shrine  of  the  God  of  Israel. 

And,  listening,  I  heard  not  only  the  sounds  of 
the  mimic  drama  —  but,  louder  and  more  dreadful, 
the  panting  of  miserable  women  who  welcomed 
death,  the  deliverer; 

And  from  Kishineff  and  Odessa  I  heard,  once 
more  crying  to  heaven,  the  outpoured  blood  of  the 
Jew. 


ii 

And  still  as  I  listened  and  dreamed,  the  crimson 
flood  widened  to  a  great  and  lustrous  pool, 

And  looking  therein  I  saw  reflected  the  faces  of 
many  known  well  to  my  heart  and  to  the  hearts  of 
all  the  world, 

For  there  were  the  features  of  mighty  warriors 
and  makers  of  laws  and  leaders  of  men;  of  poets 
inspired  and  of  painters  and  musicians;  and  of 
famed  philosophers,  and  of  men  and  women  who 
loved,  and  labored  for,  their  kind ; 

92 


A    TRAGEDY    OF    TO-DAY 

And  the  faces  of  preachers  and  prophets;  of 
those  who  fervently  cursed  the  unrighteous,  and 
who  to  a  world  in  darkness  brought  light  ever- 
lasting; 

And  chief  of  all  I  saw  in  that  crimson  mirror 
the  face  of  him  whose  spirit  was  bowed  beneath 
the  agonies  of  all  mankind. 


93 


THE  OLD  HOUSE 


HOME  of  my  forebears,  home  of  my  dreaming 
childhood, 

House  that  I  love  with  a  love  instinctive,  changeless, 
Ancestral,  mystical,  passionate,  tender,  sorrowful; 
Old  house  where  I  was  born  and  my  mother  before 

me, — 

Strangely  the  old  house  speaks  to  its  child  returning, 
Speaks  with  a  tone  affectionate,  intimate,  sweet, 
Made,  mysterious,  out  of  the  voices  of  many  — 
Out  of  the  accents  of  them,  the  loving,  the  loyal, 
That  still  in  memory  soothe  and  murmur  and  call; 
Voices  that  greeted  my  life  and  guided  the  journey, 
Human  voices,  long  hushed,  and  the  subtler  speech 
That  steals  from  the  dumb,  dead  walls,  and  whispers 

and  thrills, 
From   the   shadowy  chimney-places,   and    haunted 

nooks; 

94 


THE    OLD    HOUSE 

These  centuried  walls,  this  roof,  and  the  buoyant 
branches 

Of  large-leaved,  mottled  buttonwoods,  towering 
mightily, 

And  pines  that  my  father  planted,  now  loftily 
dying,— 

These  are  the  vibrant  notes  of  the  one  deep  chord 

That  sings  in  my  heart,  here  by  the  ancient  hearth- 
stone. 


Five  are  the  generations  this  place  have  humaned, 
Leaving  their  impress,  I  think,  on  the  breathed  air, — 
For  full  is  the  house  of  relics  of  lives  departed: 
Carvings  strange  that  some  wanderer  here  enhar- 

bored, 

Bringing  the  orient's  touch  to  the  wondering  child; 
And  Arctic  gatherings;  hints  of  the  torrid  zone; 
And  quaint  embroideries  worked  by  hands  ancestral, 
Deft  for  the  spinning  of  flax  on  these  silent  wheels; 
Books  of  a  day  when  each  was  a  treasure,  a  star, — 
And  chief  of  them  all,  to  the  trembling  heart  of  a 

boy, 

The  verse  of  him,  the  singer  of  song  sonorous, 

95 


THE    OLD    HOUSE 

Whose  voice  was  the  voice  of  trumpets  and  many 

waters, 

Whose  soul  went  forth  with  angels  and  archangels, 
Nor  stood  dismayed  before  the  Eternal  presence. 

Pictures  of  faces  whose  features  I  see  in  my  own, — 
That  I  see  re-imaged  by  laws  unfathomed,  fateful, 
In  my  own  children's  pleading,  innocent  faces; 
Volumes  of  lores  outgrown,  or  a  living  art ; 
Bibles  and   books  of   devotion,   where   names  are 

enrolled 
In  letters  that  fade   like   the  image  of  souls  long 

dead. 

Not  without  tears  may  I  ponder  the  yellowing  leaves 
Where  record  was  made  of  secretest  dreams  and 

prayers, — 

Records  of  love  accomplished,  or  unfulfilled. 
Were  the  aged  faces  I  knew,  the  timorous  maidens 
Who,  wistful,  their  innocent  passions  here  hinted, 

or  hid? 
This   wife   new-married,    so   young,    so   sweet,    so 

appealing, 

Was  this  the  angelical  mother,  she  of  great  sorrows, 
Loving  and  dreaming  in  age,  as  in  palpitant  girlhood? 
This  lock,  among  many  a  tress  so  lovingly  treas- 
ured,— 


THE    OLD    HOUSE 

Ah,  this  is  my  own,  by  hands  that  I  knew  so  well, 
Cut  from  a  golden  head  that  long  has  been  silvered. 


in 

The  old  house  speaks,  and  low,  in  the  glimmering 

twilight, 
It   murmurs   of   days  that   are   gone,    and    spirits 

lamented ; 

A  girlish  face  with  a  smile  all  radiant,  loving, — 
Sweet  cousin  mine!  where,  in  the  land  of  shadows, 
Doth  that  smile  illume,  that  voice  bring  joy  as  of 

old? 
This  quaint  and  closeted  chamber,  ah,   here  was 

unfolded 
The  love  of  a  child  for  a  child, —  through  years  and 

through  sorrows 
Remembered  and  cherished  by  each  —  the  love  of 

the  old 
For  the   old,    now, —  the  love  of  the  old  for  lost 

youth 

And  comrades  long  gone,  and  loved  and  remem- 
bered together. 
And  she  with  the  heart  of  a  queen,  and  the  soul 

of  a  martyr; 

97 


THE    OLD    HOUSE 

In  young  days  serene,  and  blithe  and  undaunted  in 
age,— 

Who  loved  the  old  house,  even  as  I  —  her  birth- 
place, her  refuge, — 

She  in  a  vision  comes  near ;  —  and  quick  I  remember 

One  night  of  all  nights,  when  a  messenger  stood  in 
the  doorway, 

Silent  he  stood,  and  we  knew  the  message  un- 
spoken! 

O  night  of  nights,  when  a  wife  turned  sudden  a 
widow, 

And  a  child,  'neath  the  solacing  stars,  passed  swift 
into  manhood. 


IV 

But  of  childhood  the  old  house  whispers  and  mur- 
murs to-night, 

Of  the  twilight  hour  in  the  arms  of  her  the  beloved 
And  loving  sister  of  her  who  gave  me  my  being, — 
Who  like  a  second  mother  encompassed  my  child- 
hood 
With  song  and  with  story,  with  gleams  of  fairy  and 

hero, 
Chanting  in  twilight  gray  the  ancient  ballads, 


THE    OLD    HOUSE 

Or  crooning,    as   if  to   herself,    the   love-songs    of 

girlhood; 
Or,  again,  she  fashioned  the  tales  of  her  own  young 

days: 
Of  the  country  balls,  in  the  time  when  winter  was 

winter, 
And  the  snows  were  piled  —  high  as  the  head  of  a 

man, 
And  the  ringing  sleighs  sped  over  the  fields  and  the 

fences 

To  the  revels  and  routs  in  the  taverns  of  long  ago, — 
When  tbe  dancing  would   last  till  dawn,   and   the 

dancers  flew 
From  village  to  village,  and  tavern  to  tavern,  all 

night; 

Turning  the  snow-lit  dark  to  rollicking  day. 
O  days  and  nights  of  a  far  and  happy  world ! 


Of  childhood   the  old    house  whispers,   of  wintry 

sports 
With  sled  and  skate  on  the  ponds  long  filled  and 

forgotten ; 

99 


THE    OLD    HOUSE 

Wild  joys  of  meadow,  and  woods,  and  waters;    of 

branches 
Laden  with  black-heart  cherries,   where  boys  and 

birds 

Alternate  shared  the  wealth  of  the  aery  feast. 
Of  boyhood  the    old    house    whispers,    of  moonlit 

voyages 

On  the  wooded  stream,  that  wound  in  silent  reaches, 
Far  through  the  mystic  land  of  awakening  life. 


VI 

And  now,  in  the  twilight  hour,  dear,  living  voices, 
The  voices  of  children  I  hear,  they  come  to  my  call ; 
And  I  tell  of  the  days  that  are  gone,  and  they  hark 

with  delight, — 
As  I,  in  my  youth,  heard  the  tales  of  the  ancient 

days; 
Then  good-night,  and  to  bed!     But  the  teller  of 

ancient  tales 

Stays  by  the  dying  fire  and  listens,  again, 
To  the  thronging  voices  that  murmur  to  him  alone. 


100 


THERE'S    NO   PLACE    LIKE    THE 
OLD    PLACE!" 


BACK  to  the  old  place  I  've  come  home  again, 
Back  at  last  from  the  big  town, 
After  so  many  hard  and  struggling  years; 
Back  to  the  old  home,  the  old  home  in  the  moun- 
tains, 

In  the  valley  of  childhood; 
And  I  say  to  myself,  again  and  again  I  say : 
There's  no  place  like  the  old  place! 


Here    once  more  I  wander,  here  in  the  valley  of 

brooks, — 
I  wander  a  stranger  —  where  every  spring  and  tree 

and  rock  is  familiar. 
101 


"THERE'S  NO  PLACE  LIKE  THE  OLD  PLACE !" 

The  little  brooks  tinkle  down,  with  the  old  music, 

through  the  pine-darkened  gorges; 
The  brooks  that  sometimes  run  dry,  or  hide  under 

the  smooth  stones; 
In  the  time  of  fulness  leaping  from  ledge  to  ledge 

down  to  the  big  brook  that  never  dries ; 
Where  the  trout  dartle  and  the  pools  are  shadowy 

and  cool 

And  good  to  the  hot  body  of  a  boy. 
Lovely,  with  an  intimate  loveliness,  is  the  valley, 
And  again  and  again  I  chant  to  myself: 
O,  there's  no  place  like  the  old  place! 


in 

There's  no  place  like  the  old  place! 
Strangely  nearer  seem  the  walls  of  the  valley, 
Though    far    and  spacious  as  ever  the  mysterious 

sunset. 
Never  before  have  I  felt  so  intensely  the  beauty  of 

it  all,— 

How  well-shaped  the  double  valley; 
The  upper  valley  like  a  great,  green  bowl, 
And  the  lower  valley  opening  out  toward  the  sunset 

like  a  trumpet; 

102 


" THERE'S  NO  PLACE  LIKE  THE  OLD  PLACE!" 

The    mountains    embowered  with  evergreens,  and 

maples,  and  chestnuts, — 
Or  lying  naked  in  the  sun, — 
Scraped  bare  by  the  ancient  glacier, 
Scoured  by  rains  and  scarred  by  lightnings, 
And  with  a  look  as  if  the  salt  sea  had  beaten  and 

bitten  there  for  a  thousand  years. 

IV 

Stately  and  gracious  with  elms  and  willows  are  the 
smooth  and  grassy  meadows 

Leveled  for  human  use  by  the  lakes  of  untold  ages, 

Then  covered  with  forests,  that  the  pioneers  up- 
rooted,— 

Rich    now   and   full   of   peace;  bringing  back  the 
well-loved  images  of  the  Bible; 

Meadows  where  first  I  heard  the  swift  song  of  the 
bobolink, — 

Throbbing  and   ringing  madly,   back  and  forth  in 
the  meadow  air, — 

And  whence,  in  full  summer,  after  a  long,  hot  day 

The  boy  that  was  I,  came  back  to  the  home  barn 

Royally  charioted  on  the  high-piled,  sweet-scented 
hay. 

Ah,  there's  no  place  like  the  old  place! 
103 


"THERE'S  NO  PLACE  LIKE  THE  OLD  PLACE!" 


There,  under  the  hill  is  the  homestead; 

How   large   the   maples   have  grown  that  the   old 

folks  planted! 
Sweet  was  the  sap  in  the  spring  and  the  shade  in 

the  summer. 
I  never  knew  such  water  as  from  the  spring  at  our 

house, 
Running  cold  as  ice  in  the  kitchen  and  out  in  the 

barn. 

And  the  little  window  up  there  was  mine! 
I  tell  you  I  slept  well,  and  rose  early  in  those  days, 
Though   sometimes  at  night  after  a  long  rain,   or 

when  the  ice  was  melting  in  Hayes's  pond, 
I   could    scarce    sleep    for    the    brook  roaring  like 

Niagara, 
As  it  leaped  the  mill-dams  and  spread  out  over  the 

meadows, 
Scurrying  great  logs  along,  and  every  footbridge  in 

the  valley. 
But    most    times    it  was    quiet    enough  at  the  old 

home, — 
The  dear  old  place,  the  old  place  that  's  the  best 

place ! 

104 


" THERE'S  NO  PLACE  LIKE  THE  OLD  PLACE!" 

VI 

O,  there's  no  place  like  the  old  place,  and  no  time 

like  the  old  time! 
The  chores  were  rough,  but  the  keener  the  zest  for 

the  play! 

For  chestnuting  in  the  frosty  autumn, 
For  the  tug  of  the  bass  at  Goose  pond  and  the  lake 

at  Monterey, 

And  the  day  of  fun  at  the  county  fair; 
For   the  skim   on   the   frozen    meadow  on  winter 

nights, 
Or  the  watch  at  the  pickerel  flags  in  the  ice-holes 

on  the  white  spread  of  the  mountain  lakes, 
Or  the  flying  plunge  of  the  bob-sled  down  Paper- 
mill  hill; 
The  chase  for  the  woodchuck,  and  the  far-circling 

fox,   and   the  all-night  tramp  for  the  treed 

'coon; 
For  a  hay-ride  with  a  bevy  of  girls  and  a  moonlight 

drive  with  one; 
For  wanderings  through  the  woods  and   over  the 

hills,— 
When  the  billowing  mountain-laurel  from  afar  off 


"THERE'S  NO  PLACE  LIKE  THE  OLD  PLACE!" 

Looked  like  flocks  of  sheep  on  the  high  terraces  of 

the  old  Sweet  farm; 
When    the    hiding    arbutus    or    gossamer    clematis 

scented  the  clean  air; 
When  came  the  child's  first  thrill  at  the  boom  of 

the  startled  partridge, 
And  when  first  the  adventurer  heard  a  whole,  great 

blossoming  linden 
Humming,    with    honey-gathering    bees,    like    the 

plucked  string  of  a  violin. 

VII 

O,  there's  no  place  like  the  old  place! 

Mightier    mountains    there    are,    sky-piercing    and 

snow-covered  all  the  year  round, 
But  the  lion-like  curve  of  Cobble,  clear-cut  against 

the  southern  heavens, 

On  still,  cold  nights  heaves  close  to  the  thick  stars; 
And  the  white  ways  of  the  Galaxy  I  have  seen  start 

from  the  lion's  head 
And  sweep  over  to  the  long  mountain,  as  if  all  the 

light  and  glory  were  for  the  valley  only. 
Day  and  night,  in  sunlight  and  starlight,  and  in  the 

light  of  the  moon  — 

Beautiful,  beautiful  is  the  valley  of  brooks. 

106 


" THERE'S  NO  PLACE  LIKE  THE  OLD  PLACE!" 

Travellers  have  said  that  in  the  whole  earth  there 

is  none  more  beautiful. 
Why  have  I  stayed  away  so  long? 
I  think  I  will  come  again  and  again  before  I  die, — 
And  perhaps  after  I  have  died;    for  in  the  white 

graveyard  on  the  hill 
Rest  in  the  long  sleep  some  whom  one  day  I  should 

like  to  join. 
I  wonder  shall  I  seem  to  them  as  strange  as  now 

to  me 
The  image  of  my  own  self  as  I  was  in  the  days  of 

childhood : 

An  image  that  haunts  me  hourly  while  here  I  wan- 
der and  dream, 
And    makes    me    strange    to    myself   in   a    curious 

double  existence. 
The  old  friends  seem  to  know  me  —  but  I  am  never 

deceived; 
The  one  that  I  am  is  not  the  one  that  I  was  —  yet 

truly 

No  one  but  I  ever  knew  the  youth  who  departed, 
And  the  youth  who  departed  still  lives  in  the  elder 

returning, 
In  whose  bosom  revive  the  days  that  forever  are 

gone  — 

107 


"THERE'S  NO  PLACE  LIKE  THE  OLD  PLACE!" 

The  old  love  and  the  old  sweet  longings; 

The  old  love  for  the  old  place,  that  deepens  as  age 

comes  closer, 

And  the  heart  keeps  sighing  and  singing: 
There's  no  place  like  the  old  place! 


108 


GLEN  GILDER 


HOW  curves  the  little  river  through  Glen  Gilder, 
OGlen  Gilder; 
Now  it  runs  and  now  it  rushes,  now  it  sings  and  now 

it  hushes 
O'er  the  rocks  and  by  the  brushes  in  Glen  Gilder. 


ii 

All  music  is  the  river  in  Glen  Gilder,  O  Glen  Gilder; 
It  sounds  like  wild  birds  singing,  and  it  chimes  like 

bells  a-ringing, — 
Birds,  too,  their  songs  are  flinging  in  Glen  Gilder. 

in 

O  mighty  are  the  willows   of  Glen  Gilder,  of  Glen 

Gilder; 
Cool  the  air  and  cool  the  waters  'neath  the  giant 

spreading  shadows, 
And  beyond   wide  sweep   the   meadows  from  Glen 

Gilder. 

109 


GLEN    GILDER 

IV 

O,  there's  life  and  fun  and  frolic  in  Glen  Gilder,  in 

Glen  Gilder; 
And  near  the  men  are  haying,  and  here  the  cows 

are  straying, 
And  the  lambs  and  colts  are  playing  in  Glen  Gilder. 


Spring  and   autumn   bring  a  change  to  fair  Glen 

Gilder,  O  Glen  Gilder; 
Above   the   banks   and   under  come  the  freshet's 

rage  and  thunder, 
And  men  look  with  awe  and  wonder  on  Glen  Gilder. 

VI 

O,  white  the  world   of  winter   in   Glen   Gilder,   in 

Glen  Gilder; 
'Neath  ice  the  waves  are  creeping,  or  in  the  dark 

pool  sleeping, 
Or  with  sounds  of  sleigh-bells  leaping  in  Glen 

Gilder. 

VII 

O,  beautiful   the   morning  in   Glen   Gilder,  in  Glen 
Gilder; 

no 


GLEN    GILDER 

But,  O,  most  dear   and   tender  when  blooms   the 

sunset  splendor, 
At  dying  day's  surrender  in  Glen  Gilder. 

VIII 

And  now  the  lingering  sunlight  leaves  Glen  Gilder, 

O  Glen  Gilder; 
While  moony  shades  are  stalking,  is  it  the  wavelets 

talking, 
Or  whispering  lovers  walking  in  Glen  Gilder? 


in 


M 


SONG 

ARIA  mia!  all  in  white 

Your  fairy  form  against  the  night, 
Maria! 


Maria  mia!  in  the  night 
Gleams  like  a  ghost  your  form  so  slight, 

Maria ! 

Maria  mia!  like  a  sprite 

Burn  those  eyes  in  dusky  light, 

Maria ! 

Maria  mia!  sweet  and  wise 

Those  darkling,  deep,  Italian  eyes, 

Maria! 

Maria  mia!  starry  skies 
Hold  no  such  brightness  as  those  eyes, 

Maria ! 

112 


SONG 

Maria  mia!  turn,  O  turn 
Those  eyes  away  that  beam  and  burn, 

Maria! 

Maria  mia!  when  those  eyes 
Burn  close,  O  close,  I  am  not  wise, 

Maria! 
I  am  not  wise, 

Maria ! 


OBSCURATION 

'THHIS  night,  when  I  blew  out  my  candle  flame, 
•*•       The  window's  dark  square  suddenly  turned 

white !  — 

I  had  not  known  the  half-moon  shone  so  bright, 
And  that  a  cool,  sweet,  silent  moonbeam  came 
Through  summer  air,  faint-touched  with  autumn 

frost, 

And  poured  upon  my  floor  a  pool  of  light! 
Pure,  heavenly  visitant  —  and  almost  thou  wert  lost. 


"I  DREAMED" 

I   DREAMED  a  tender  and  mysterious  dream 
Of  one  who,  threading  paths  of  earthly  fate, 
In  a  rich  twilight  walked,  with  heart  aglow, 
And  all  his  soul  vibrant  with  unheard  tones, 
" Drawn,  drawn  by  the  soft  splendor  of  a  face." 


114 


IMPROMPTUS 

"FROM  LOVE  TO  LOVE" 

(FOR  A  WEDDING) 

1  ^ROM  love  to  love  she  passes  on  this  day; 
-*-      Yet  all  the  love  she  leaves  with  her  doth  stay; 
Deep,  deep,  the  new  love,  in  her  heart  of  hearts, 
And  the  old  love  follows  her  when  she  departs: 
So  is  she  richer  than  she  was  before, 
For  of  true  love  she  hath  a  mightier  store. 


"  I  ASKED  You  TO  READ  MY  POEM  " 

i 

T  ASKED  you  to  read   my   poem,  so   shameless 
-*-     was  I, 

I  —  not  used  such  boon  and  service  to  ask; 
This  my  excuse, — when  you  hear,  you  will  not  deny 
The  prayer  of  the  poet,  who  saw  the  soul  through 
the  mask. 

1*5 


IMPROMPTUS 

II 

The  singer  sails  in  a  sea  beyond  sight  or  ken, 
And  he  flings  his  plummet  of  song  by  night  and 

by  day; 
With  his  poems   he  sounds  the   depths  of  the  souls 

of  men, — 
In  your  soul  my  song  I  flung  to  fathom  the  way. 


NAZIMOVA 

1  ^ROM  every  motion,  every  lovely  line, 

J-      Breathe  art  and  passion ;  music  from  those  lips  ; 

The  tragic  Orient  from  those  lustrous  eyes. 


A  WARRIOR  OF  TROY 

T    ET  other  gray-beards  mourn  the  flight  of  years, 
•L-*  Finding  no  gains  of  eld  to  match  its  fears; 
I  have  no  feud  with  fate,  nor  age,  nor  time, 
Who  knew  great  Helen  in  her  golden  prime. 


116 


IMPROMPTUS 

THE  OBELISK  (1881) 

T)ENEATH    a   stone   wrenched    from    Egyptian 
sands 


Six  rivers  run  through  six  imperial  lands; 

Nile,  Bosphorus,  Tiber,  Seine  and  Thames,  till  now 

The  Hudson  wears  the  jewel  on  her  brow. 

Land  that  we  love  !  O  be  thou,  by  this  sign, 

Though  last,  the  noblest  of  the  mighty  line. 


CROWNED  ABSURDITIES 

I   ASKED  me:  what  in  all  the  world  so  odd 
And  laughable  to  men,  and  unto  God, — 
The  height  of  comedy  in  earthly  things? 
That  lot  of  little  men  pretending  to  be  kings! 


To   "LITTLE  LADY  MARGARET''  —  WITH   A 
BOOK  OF  POEMS 


who  love  the  poets 
-A-       Will  never  lack  a  friend  — 
Up  the  road,  and  down  the  road, 
And  to  the  very  end. 


117 


IMPROMPTUS 

SACRILEGE 
T'ED,  thou,  with  sweet  and  silent  Death, 


Rather  than  join  the  prurient  throng 
Would  soil,  with  foul,  empoisoned  breath, 
The  sanctity  of  song. 


To  THE  HERO  OF  A  SCIENTIFIC  ROMANCE 

T'F  you  wish,  go  be  a  pig, 
•*•    In  and  out  of  season; 
But  do  not  bore  us  with  a  big 
Philosophic  reason. 


118 


THE  WATCHMAN  ON  THE 
TOWER 

(JANUARY,   1907) 

JlfATCHMAN!      What  seest  thou  in  the  New 

Dawn  ? 

Far  off,  across  the  seas,  I  behold  men  pursuing 
men  and  helpless  women  with  dreadful  massacre; 
borne  on  the  eastern  wind  I  hear  the  horrible  cries 
of  the  murdered  and  bereft. 

And  what   seest  thou    nearer,    O    Watchman  of  the 

Tower  ? 

Nearer  I  see  dark  and  cowering  forms  of  crime 
and  frightened  innocence,  alike  given  pitilessly  to 
the  green  tree  and  the  red  flame. 

And  what  else  nearer  dost  thou  see.      O  Seer  of  Evil 
Things  ? 

I  see  smoldering  fires  and  drift  of  black  smoke 
where  all  manner  of  shames  have  been  burned  in 
the  market-places,  befouling  the  pure  air  of  heaven. 

And  now,  again,  thou  seest — ? 
119 


THE    WATCHMAN    ON    THE    TOWER 

I  see  scared  creatures,  in  shape  of  men,  fleeing 
from  the  light,  and  hiding  in  clefts  of  rocks,  and  in 
far  places  of  the  earth. 

Look  well,  O  Watchman,  look  near  and  wide,  and  tell 
us,  who  wait,  what  other  things  thou  dost  behold  f 

I  see  the  shining  faces  of  little  children  from 
whose  backs  heavy  burdens  have  been  lifted ;  I  see 
rich  men  eagerly  scattering  their  wealth  among 
those  who  need, — lifting  up  the  stricken  and  re- 
storing the  power  of  self-help  to  the  sturdy;  I  see 
those  who  labor  winning  an  ampler  share  in  the 
profits  of  their  toil  —  in  wage,  and  comfort,  and 
safety,  and  time  for  rest;  I  behold  Science  con- 
quering the  secrets  and  guiding  the  forces  of  nature, 
and  creating  new  and  wondrous  devices  for  human 
happiness, — working  miracles  in  culture  of  the  soil, 
and  in  the  cure  of  sickness ;  I  behold  Art  going  up 
and  down  the  land,  making  homes  and  cities  more 
beautiful ;  I  behold  Service  honored  above  posses- 
sions; I  see  men  as  brothers, — in  times  of  calm 
and  in  days  of  monstrous  calamity, — stretching 
hands  to  one  another  over  lands  and  seas,  and 
across  the  ancient  barriers  of  race,  and  religion,  and 
condition;  I  see  the  hearts  of  men  go  out,  in  new 
120 


THE    WATCHMAN    ON    THE    TOWER 

love  and  care  and  understanding,  to  the  beasts  of 
the  field  and  to  the  birds  of  the  air;  I  hear  the 
voices  of  poets  and  prophets  troubling  the  hearts 
and  lifting  up  the  souls  of  all  mankind ;  and  in  all 
these  I  see  the  mind  of  the  Son  of  Man,  and  the 
power  of  the  Will  Eternal. 

O  Seer  of  Good  and  Evil,  what  e/se,  what  else  ? 

Near  by  I  behold  the  Angel  of  a  People,  and  in 
his  hand  he  bears  a  standard  whereon  is  writ  in 
letters  of  light,  the  one  word  Truth ;  higher  he 
bears  the  standard  than  ever  before,  and  the  people, 
in  gathering  numbers,  follow  the  Word. 

And  what  of  the  evil  things  that  late  thou  sawest? 

Still  I  see  them,  and  many  more,  but  fainter  are 
they  growing,  as  by  some  element  of  light  consumed. 
Yet  doth  one  strange  and  greatly  evil  thing  loom 
with  menace  against  the  dawn  —  the  shadow  of  false 
and  self-seeking  men  who  seize  the  banner  of  right- 
eousness and  with  unclean  hands  uplift  it,  to  the 
deceiving  of  many;  and  yet  even  here,  I  know, 
it  is  the  love  of  Right  and  not  of  Wrong  which  doth 
mislead;  and  as  the  light  increases  surely  the  pure 
in  heart  shall  know  their  own  and  shun  the  deceiver 
of  souls. 

121 


THE    WATCHMAN    ON    THE    TOWER 

And  what  of  the  good  that  late  thou  sawest  ? 

O  still  I  see  the  good,  and  with  clearer  eyes; 
and,  lo,  it  doth  appear  that,  in  the  light  of  the  New 
Dawn,  greater  and  always  greater  grows  the  good, 
and  nearer  and  always  nearer.  For  now,  with  the 
rising  sun,  a  company  of  angels  in  new  flight  lift 
their  wings  and  come  upon  the  day,  and  one  is  the 
bright  Angel  of  Freedom,  and  one  the  strong  Angel 
of  Justice,  and  one  is  the  undaunted  Angel  of 
Peace,  and  one  the  Angel  of  Hope  Everlasting. 
With  a  great  and  wonderful  burst  of  light  they  come, 
and  with  loud  music  of  instruments  and  many  voices. 
O  Watcher  of  the  Dawn !  thou  seest  what  t's,  but 
canst  thou  see  what  yet  shall  be  ? 

O  ye  who  doubt!  In  the  visible  present  lives 
the  invisible  future,  and  the  hour  that  is  brings  the 
hour  that  shall  be.  If  the  Light  grows,  it  shall  not 
cease  to  grow;  and  the  good  that  is  brings  the 
good  that  is  to  come.  As  with  separate  souls,  so 
with  peoples, — the  New  Year,  though  it  holds 
inheritance  of  shame  and  loss,  holds,  also,  inherit- 
ance of  striving,  and  accomplishment,  and  divine 
aspiration.  Lo,  the  Light  is  climbing,  not  only  of 
a  New  Year,  but  of  a  New  Era  for  the  awakening 

world. 

122 


UNDER  THE  STARS 


UNDER  THE  STARS 

A  REQUIEM  FOR  AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 
I 

O  KINDRED  stars,  wherethrough    his  soul   in 
flight 

Passed  to  the  immortals!  'neath  your  ageless  light 
I  stand  perplexed,  remembering  that  keen  spirit 
Quenched  in  mid-strength;    the   world,   that   shall 

inherit 

His  legacy  of  genius,  all  deprived 
Of  wealth  untold,  the  still  ungathered  fruit 
Of  that  great  art!     What  honey  all  unhived; 
What  unborn  grandeurs;  noble  music  mute! 

ii 

O  silent  stars !  even  as  I  hearken  here, 
Heart-heavy,  a  murmurous  and  mysterious  voice, 
Blent  with  sweet  wiry  tones,  on  the  inward  ear 
Strikes,  and  I  hear  the  summons:   "O  rejoice, 
Rejoice  and  mourn  not!  "    Then  that  wondrous  star 
Now   drawn  near   earth, —  named   for   the  god  of 

war, — 

The  fiery  planet  cries  across  the  night: 
"Victory,  Victory,  he  hath  won  the  fight!  " 
125 


UNDER    THE    STARS 

III 

O  star  of  fire  !  he  was  thy  very  child  ! 
Mixed  with  his  blood  thy  fierce,  ensanguined  ray! 
'Gainst  the  proud  forces  of  the  sordid  day 
He  battled  valiantly,  all  unbeguiled 
By  what  might  tempt  or  foil  a  lesser  soul. 
Not  wealth,  nor  ease,  nor  praise  unworthily  won 
Could  touch  his  spirit;  —  "There  the  swift  course 

to  run!  " 
"There,  there,  O  see!  the  bright,  immortal  goal!  " 


Thou  star  of  blood  and  battle!  rich  and  sweet 
Thy  liquid  gleam,  where,  in  the  twilight  sky, 
Thou  shinest  greatly  !    So  did  his  art  repeat 
Thy  strength,  thy  loveliness;  thy  ministry,  — 
In  a  dark,  harmful  world,  —  of  Beauty's  guerdon; 
Beauty  that  broods,  enlightens,  and  makes  endure 
The  heart  of  man  beneath  its  heavy  burden, 
Lifting  above  the  strife  a  deathless  lure. 


O  starry  skies !  O  palpitant  winds  whose  throbbings 
From  out  the  vast  of  heaven  pulse  and  flow! 
In  light  and  sound  eterne  our  human  sobbings 
126 


UNDER    THE    STARS 

Are  lost. —  How  dear  to  him  who  lieth  low 
The  garment  wonderful  wild  nature  throws 
About  its  inner  life:  green  glades  withdrawn; 
Anger  of  ocean;  beauty  of  the  rose; 
The  pomp  superb  of  sunset  and  of  dawn. 

VI 

White,  trembling  fires  of  the  unknown  universe! 
Ye  speak  of  some  august,  inscrutable  Power 
Creative,  from  whose  hand,  to  bless  or  curse, 
Ye  were  sent  forth  —  thrillingly,  in  an  hour 
Of  force  stupendous,  swift,  immeasurable; 
To-night  those  unconsuming  fires  tell 
Of  one,  who,  in  the  splendor  of  his  passion, 
Alas!  though  mortal,  could  the  immortal  fashion. 

VII 

O  stars  that  sing  as  in  creation's  prime! 
He  whom,  with  love  and  tears,  we  celebrate, 
He,  like  the  Power  that  made  ye,  could  create, — 
Bringing  to  birth  new  beauty  for  all  time: 
Once,  lo!  these  shapes  were  not,  now  do  they  live, 
And  shall  forever  in  the  hearts  of  men ; 
And  from  their  life  new  life  shall  spring  again, 
To  souls  unborn  new  light  and  joy  to  give. 
127 


UNDER    THE    STARS 

VIII 

Ye  stars,  all  music  to  the  spirit's  ear! 

Before  the  imperial  music-masters  knelt 

This  master  of  an  art  sublime,  austere; 

The  very  soul  of  music  in  him  dwelt, 

So  in  his  lines  the  haunting  strains  of  lyres, 

From  gracious  forms  deep  tones  symphonic  spring; 

Once  more  we  hear  the  sound  of  heavenly  wires, 

Again  the  stars  of  morn  together  sing. 

IX 

Red  star  of  war!  thy  sons  did  he  enshrine 

In  glorious  art, —  fighters  on  sea  and  land; 

In  bronze  they  give  again  the  brave  command; 

In  bronze  they  march  resistless,  in  divine 

Ecstasy  of  devotion,  not  in  wrath ; 

The  fire  and  fury  of  battle  he  made  real, 

But  like  God's  prophets  moved  they  on  their  path 

Led  and  uplifted  by  the  great  Ideal. 

x 

O  fateful  stars!  that  lit  the  climbing  way 
Of  that  dear,  martyred  son  of  fate  and  fame, — 
The  supreme  soul  of  an  immortal  day, — 
Linked  with  his  name  is  our  great  sculptor's  name; 
128 


UNDER    THE    STARS 

For  now  in  art  eternal  breathes  again 
The  gaunt,  sweet  presence  of  our  chief  of  men, — 
That  soul  of  tenderness;  that  spirit  stern, 
Whose  fires  divine  forever  flame  and  burn. 

XI 

Stars  of  white  midnight!  though  unseen  by  day, 
Imagined!  He  the  unseen  could  subtly  see 
And  image  forth  in  most  divine  array: 
Blest  Charity,  and  Love,  and  Loyalty, 
And  Victory,  and  Grief;  and,  with  a  touch 
Made  tender  by  heroic  years  of  pain, — 
Telling  in  art  what  words  might  not  contain, — 
The  calm,  sweet  face  of  Him  who  suffered  much. 

XII 

Mysterious  sky!  where  orbs  constellate  reign! 
Toward  which  the  heart  of  man  through  endless  ages 
Hath  flung  eternal  questionings  in  vain, — 
Yet  hath  he  read  a  little  in  thy  pages; 
And  him  we  miss,  learned  well  from  thee  to  mould, — 
As  by  the  hand  of  Fate,  in  time's  dark  womb, — 
That  mystic  form,  a  thousand  centuries  old ; 
That  mournless  mourner  near  a  tragic  tomb. 
129 


UNDER    THE    STARS 

XIII 

Ye  stars  eternal!  in  your  motions  wide 
I  feel  the  march  of  time;  audibly  pours 
To  faithful  ears  the  immemorial  tide 
Of  starry  seas  that  beat  on  infinite  shores; 
And,  in  that  music  magical,  cold  death, — 
And  grief  its  shadow, —  melt  and  are  undone; 
And  that  which  brings  the  miracle  of  breath, 
And  that  which  takes, —  aye,  that  which  takes, — 
are  one. 

XIV 

O  star  of  war!  beyond  thy  troublous  beams 

His  freed  soul  wings  to  a  great  calm  at  last; 

The  deep  night,  with  its  tremulous,  starry  streams 

Of  light  celestial,  pours  repose  so  vast 

Nought  can  escape  that  flood ;  and  now  the  faces, 

Angelical,  he  moulded  with  pure  art, 

In  majesty  look  forth  from  heavenly  spaces: 

Enter  thy  peace,  O  high,  tempestuous  heart! 


130 


